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UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIF©^NIA. 


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A    FELLOWE   AND    HIS 
WIFE 

BY 

BLANCHE  WILLIS   HOWARD 

AND 

WILLIAM   SHARP 

"  A  fellowe  almost  damned  in  a  faire  wife."  —OTHELLO. 


BOSTON    AND   NEW   YORK 
HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN   AND   COMPANY 


1892 


Copyright,  1892, 

By  BLANCHE  WILLIS   HOWARD  VON  TEUFFEL 
AND  WILLIAM  SHARP. 

All  rights  reserved 


The  Riverside  Press,  Cambridge,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 
Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  H.  O.  Houghton  &  Company. 


Count  Odo  von  Jaromar : 

BLANCHE    WILLIS  HOWARD. 

Countess  Use  von  Jaromar : 

WILLIAM  SHARP. 


' 


A  FELLOWE  AND  HIS  WIFE 


FROM  THE   COUNTESS  ILSE  VON  JAROMAR-ILSENSTEIN 
TO  HER  HUSBAND,  COUNT  ODO  VON  JAROMAR. 

Palazzo  Malaspina,  Via  Gregoriana,  Rome, 

Thursday,  sjth  October. 

AMICO   MIO: 

You  see  how  Italian  I  am  already  !  You 
will  note  at  a  glance  that  I  am  no  longer  at 
the  Hotel  d'ltalia.  A  most  fortunate  thing 
has  happened.  You  will  remember  how 
pleased  I  was  when  our  good  neighbor, 
Count  Paul  Waldeck,  promised  me  an  intro 
duction  to  Friedrich  Herwegh,  the  sculptor. 
Well,  I  had  not  presented  the  letter,  but  when 
dining  two  nights  ago  with  our  friends  Ul- 
rich  Heideloff  and  his  wife,  I  met  Herwegh. 
He  is  a  splendid  fellow.  One  is  nearly  al 
ways  disappointed  in  expectations  of  famous 
people,  but  our  great  sculptor  is  an  excep 
tion.  True,  he  is  younger,  in  aspect  at  any 
rate,  than  I  had  anticipated ;  but  as  for  that, 


A   FELLOWE  AND  HIS   WIFE 


well  —  so  much  the  better.  The  Heideloffs 
quite  embarrassed  me  by  all  the  kind  things 
they  said,  but  I  was  well  aware  that  Her- 
wegh  was  nothing  more  than  courteously  in 
terested,  till  Lotta  led  him  to  the  corner  of 
the  salon  where  my  little  ivory  Diver  stands, 
in  what  I  told  my  amiable  hosts  is  the  most 
charming  and  flattering  isolation.  You  know 
the  one  I  mean  ?  Not  the  Diver  I  sent  to 
Berlin,  but  that  which  I  made  last  summer  at 
Thiessow,  from  Caspar  Mohl,  the  son  of  the 
old  boatman  who  used  to  take  us  about  so 
much.  It  is  the  one  which  stoops  forward, 
looking  intently  into  imaginary  depths.  Her- 
wegh  gave  a  rapid  glance,  first  at  it,  then  at 
me.  But  he  kept  silent  so  long  that  my  heart 
sank.  Ah,  my  dear  Odo,  it  throbbed  quickly 
enough  when  he  turned  to  me,  and  said  :  "  You 
did  this?"  and  added,  "So:  you  are  a  sculp 
tor  indeed.  That  Diver  is  not  flawless,  but 
there  is  nothing  amateurish  about  it.  You 
must  work,  work,  work  ;  study,  study,  study. 
Do  you  know  that  there  is  not  a  woman  — 
well,  never  mind.  And  now,  Countess,  when 


A   FELLOWE  AND  HIS  WIFE 


will  you  come  and  have  a  talk  with  me  ?     Will 
you  come  to  my  studio  to-morrow  ?  " 

Of  course  I  gladly  agreed.  On  the  morrow 
I  went  to  his  workroom  in  the  Vicolo  da  Tolen- 
tino,  close  to  the  Piazza  del  Tritone,  which  you 
will  remember.  By  the  way,  I  am  so  glad  you 
visited  Rome  after  you  left  the  university,  for 
I  need  not  bore  you  with  descriptions  and 
raptures  and  reflections ;  and  yet  when  I  do 
wish  you  to  have  some  definite  idea,  it  is  de 
lightful  to  know  that,  from  a  hint  or  two,  you 
can  realize  what  is  before  me  as  I  write.  And 
again,  as  I  am  much  more  interesting  to  you 
than  Herwegh's  sculpture  —  if  I  thought  you 
would  smile  at  this  I  should  never  forgive 
you !  —  I  won't  say  anything  about  it  at 
present.  Only,  I  was  glad  to  be  there  —  to  be 
with  that  great  artist  —  to  see  his  newly  begun 
and  partly  finished  works,  with  the  rigorous, 
animating  master-touch  manifest  everywhere. 
He  invited  me  to  be  quite  frank  with  him. 
You,  who  complain  that  I  arn  so  uncommuni 
cative,  would  be  surprised  to  hear  me.  I  told 
him  all  —  well,  all  that  was  needful.  And, 


A   FELLOWE   AND  HIS  WIFE 


what  do  you  think? — oh,  I  am  so  glad  !  He 
knew  just  the  place  for  me  to  go  to.  He  has 
friends,  Gustav  and  Lilien  Rohrich,  who  own 
the  whole  of  the  third  ttage  of  the  Palazzo 
Malaspina.  They  are  wealthy  people,  and  are 
much  away  from  Rome ;  but  he  assured  me 
there  would  be  no  difficulty  in  my  having  a 
small  suite  of  rooms  there.  The  Rohrichs 
had  offered  this  suite  to  him,  but  he  preferred 
to  be  nearer  his  studio.  He  would,  he  said, 
go  round  to  the  Palazzo  Malaspina  and  see 
them  at  once  on  my  behalf.  Before  I  clearly 
understood,  he  was  gone  !  I  confess  I  was 
much  perturbed  till  he  returned.  I  did  not 
know  what  to  think.  Moreover,  I  did  not  for 
a  moment  believe  he  would  be  successful  in 
his  quest ;  but  the  moment  I  saw  his  face  I 
guessed  my  good  fortune ;  and,  indeed,  I  had 
not  long  to  wait,  for  with  him  came  Frau 
Rohrich,  a  pleasant  and  comely  woman.  Well, 
to  be  brief,  I  went  back  with  her,  saw  the 
rooms,  came  to  an  arrangement,  and  thanked 
my  guardian  gods  !  The  rooms  are  small,  but 
their  situation  is  all  one  could  wish.  The 


A   FELLOWE   AND   HIS  WIFE 


Palazzo  Malaspina  is  an  old  palace  nearly  at 
the  Pincian  end  of  the  Via  Sistina;  and  it  has 
two  entrances,  one  in  that  street,  and  one  in 
the  Via  Gregoriana.  My  rooms  are  gained  by 
the  latter,  though  the  main  entrance  is  in  the 
Sistina.  It  is  just  the  place  for  a  romance ; 
the  daring  lover  can  come  in  one  way  and  go 
by  another !  Ah,  but  ,1  am  looked  after  by 
these  good  Rohrichs,  so  set  your  mind  at  rest ! 
You  must  remember  that  saying  in  y$ur-.., 
favorite  Balzac:  "What  saves  the  virtue, of 
many  a  woman  is  that  protecting  god  -^-  the 
impossible!'  What  a  cynic  !  But  you  men  are 
all  alike.  Well,  I  am  to  have  three  charming 
little  rooms,  —  a  bedroom,  a  reception-room, 
and  a  small  room  which  is  to  serve  as  my 
studio, — with  attendance,  for  250  lire  a  month : 
a  small  sum  when  one  considers  the  advan 
tages,  the  position,  and  so  forth.  They  all 
face  northwesterly,  so  you  may  imagine  my 
view  !  I  look  right  over  Rome,  and  out  upon 
the  Ostian  Campagna.  To  the  right  lies  the 
Papal  part  of  the  city,  and  I  can  just  catch  the 
fringe  of  the  gardens  of  the  Pincio.  I  know 


A   PEL  LOWE  AND  HIS  WIFE 


you  don't  think  much  of  King  Umberto's 
Prime  Minister,  so  you  will  be  glad  to  hear 
that  I  too  look  down  upon  him  —  literally,  for 
I  overlook  his  house  in  the  Via  Gregoriana. 
But,  to  make  good  news  better,  Frau  Rohrich 
told  me  I  could  get  in  at  once.  It  is  so  good 
of  them  and  Friedrich  Herwegh.  I  can  see 
that  the  250  lire  is  only  a  nominal  charge,  as 
they  knew  I  could  not  come  save  as  a  pay 
ing  tenant ;  had  they  really  wished  to  gain 
by  letting  the  rooms  they  would  have  charged 
at  least  700  lire.  Herwegh  told  me  that  his 
English  friends,  the  Arnolds,  pay  1000  lire  for 
an  indifferent  apartment  in  this  expensive  Via 
Gregoriana. 

Eccomi !  Here  I  am,  happily  situated.  I 
cannot  tell  you  how  elated  I  am  at  the  pros 
pects  of  this  coming  winter.  I  am  going  to 
work  so  hard.  You  will  be  proud  of  me  yet, 
Odo. 

By  the  way,  this  will  amuse  you.  Some 
one  on  the  staff  of  the  Fanfulla  took  me  for 
the  wife  of  the  new  Russian  Ambassador : 
"  Madame  Olgaroff  is  a  tall  and  handsome 


A   PEL  LOWE   AND   HIS  WIFE 


woman,  with  that  singular  fairness  which  is 
essentially  Scandinavian  rather  than  Slavonic. 
She  is  quite  young,  certainly  well  on  the  right 
side  of  five  and  twenty.  The  unusual  dark 
blue  of  her  eyes  is  in  striking  contrast  to 
her  pure  skin  and  lustrous  bronze-gold  hair. 
Madame  Olgaroff  was  the  most  noticed  per 
son  at  the  Reception,  and  both  King  Um- 
berto  and  Queen  Margherita  were  clearly 
impressed  by  her  stately  beauty  of  face'  and 
figure  and  her  winsome  manner.  The  Rus 
sian  Ambassadress  was  dressed" — but,  no, 
my  poor  Odo,  I  won't  inflict  you  to  that 
point. 

You  know  that  I  am  vain,  though  of  course 
you  will  deny  having  ever  told  me  so.  Still, 
I  do  not  think,  till  I  came  to  the  description 
of  the  dress,  that  I  would  have  guessed  I 
was  meant,  though  of  course  I  knew  some 
ridiculous  mistake  had  been  made.  That  time 
I  stayed  with  your  aunt  in  Berlin  I  met 
Madame  Olgaroff,  a  commonplace,  dowdy  wo 
man,  and  without  a  single  recommendation 
save  her  high  birth  and  immense  wealth. 


8  A   FELLOWE   AND   HIS  WIFE 

And  now  in  to-day's  Fanfnlla  there  is  a  correc 
tion  to  the  effect  that  Madame  Olgaroff  was 
not  yet  in  Rome,  and  that  the  lady  who  had 
been  inadvertently  described  instead  is  that 
illustrissima  signora  la  Contessa  Use  von  I  Is  en- 
stein. 

Thursday  evening. 

The  Rohrichs  very  kindly  insisted  on  tak 
ing  me  for  a  drive  to  the  Villa  Pamphilj-Doria 
to-day.  I  am  astonished  to  find  my  childish 
recollections  of  Rome  so  little  subject  to 
change.  As  we  crossed  the  Corso  and  drove 
past  the  column  of  Marcus  Aurelius,  and  down 
through  the  narrow  streets  to  the  Tiber,  I 
found  that  there  was  almost  nothing  that  was 
new  to  me !  True,  I  had  never  before  seen 
the  beautiful  gardens  of  the  Pamphilj-Doria 
—  alone  worth  coming  to  Rome  to  see,  says 
Herwegh,  and  I  agree  with  him  —  but  I  had 
been  on  the  Janiculum  before,  and  well  remem 
bered  the  luxurious  splashing  of  the  water  in 
the  great  fountains  of  the  Acqua  Paola,  and 
that  superb  and  unrivaled  view  from  the 
terrace  of  the  Spanish  Academy  across  Rome 


A   FELL  OWE   AND   HIS  WIFE 


to  the  Sabines  and  Albans.  Do  you  know,  I 
had  such  a  strange  Heimweh  all  at  once,  when 
at  the  Villa.  We  had  alighted  to  walk  about 
a  little.  I  forget  if  you  know  the  place  ;  if 
you  do,  you  will  remember  the  narrow  lago. 
I  was  strolling  near  it,  and  suddenly  I  came 
upon  that  small  amber-yellow  flower  —  I  don't 
know  its  name  —  which  grows  in  our  north- 
sea  islands.  That  day  at  Vilm  —  you  know 
the  day,  dear  —  you  gave  me  one,  and  said 
it  should  be  called  the  Use-flower,  because  it 
was  never  the  same  long  —  constantly  lighter 
or  darker,  but  never  the  same.  It  all  came 
back  to  me  —  you,  and  the  island-forest,  and 
all  the  dear  homeland. 

You  told  me  once  that  I  had  not  a  snara 
of  sentiment  in  me.     You  foolish  boy  ! 


Friday  morning.    ^-^ 

I  fell  into  a  dream  last  night,  and  so  did 
not  finish,  and  therefore  did  not  post  my 
letter.  I  am  not  going  to  tell  you  what  my 
dream  was,  for  to-day  there  is  no  letter  from 
you,  as  I  expected.  I  wonder  —  ah,  here  it 
comes  !  Of  course  :  how  stupid  I  am  !  It 
went  first  to  the  Hotel  d'  Italia. 


,v 


10  A   FELLOIVE  AND  HIS  WIFE 

Well,  I  have  read  your  letter.  It  is  not 
quite  like  you,  Odo.  Why,  I  cannot  say.  It 
seems  constrained,  and  so  unlike  that  which  I 
found  awaiting  me  at  Milan,  and  that  at  the 
Italia.  What  tiresome  things  letters  are !  they 
are  either  flowers  without  their  wildwood  fra 
grance,  or  little  adders,  all  wriggle  and  sting  ! 
No,  I  am  not  going  to  write  to  you  any  more 
just  now.  Why  do  you  lay  so  much  stress 
upon  "  duty,"  -  "your  duty,"  "  my  duty  "  ? 
The  word  is  your  Shibboleth  just  now.  And 
I  hate  Shibboleths.  And  that  quotation  from 
Herder !  It  is  excellent ;  but  to  what  is  it 
apropos  ?  I  was  reading  a  French  book  in 
the  train  the  other  day,  and  there  was  a  much 
more  apt  remark  about  duty  there.  "There  is 
a  magic  in  the  word  duty,  something  I  know 
not  what,  which  sustains  magistrates,  inflames 
warriors,  and  cools  married  people  !  "  There, 
I  have  given  you  my  Dupuy  for  your  Herder. 
Think  over  it,  sposo  mio  ! 

If  you  are  good  —  but  not  otherwise  —  you 
shall  soon  hear  from  your 

Ever  affectionate  and  dutiful 

ILSE. 


II 

FROM  THE   COUNT  TO  THE   COUNTESS  VON   JAROMAR. 

Schloss  Jaromar,  Riigcn, 

November  j. 

YOUR  letter  from  the  Palazzo  Malaspina,  my 
Use,  scarcely  reached  our  northern  shores  be 
fore  meeting  with  strange  adventures  on  land 
and  sea.  Among  its  rude  experiences,  it  has 
taken  an  involuntary  and  prolonged  cold  bath 
.  .  .  and  by  the  four  heads  of  the  great  god 
Swantevit,  it  needed  no  reduction  of  temper 
ature  ! 

Poor  little  letter  !  It  is  blotted  and  blurred 
as  if  by  tears,  a  sorry  plight  for  so  light-hearted 
a  thing.  I  have  spread  it  out  here  before  the 
fire,  and  smoothed  it  as  well  as  I  could,  but  its 
backbone  is  broken,  and  much  of  it  is  illegible  ; 
that  bit  of  Balzac  in  one  of  his  aberrations  of 
intellect  for  instance,  and  the  close,  with  its 
undertone.  Why  were  you  restive,  lichen  ? 
What  can  I  have  said  ?  Do  I  not  know  well 


12  A   PEL  LOWE  AND  HIS  WIFE 

that  there  is  no  conflict  between  your  soul  and 
mine  as  to  what  duty  means,  however  we  may 
differ  in  non-essentials,  and  if,  where  you  lie 
prostrate  before  the  shrine  of  art,  I  stand  erect 
—  as  a  free  man  should  ?  So  I  do  not  mourn 
that  I  have  unwittingly  drowned  Dupuy  with 
his  trite  matrimonial  saw,  which,  you  must 
concede,  applied  to  so  unique  a  young  couple, 
is  ludicrously  wide  of  the  mark.  Surely  you 
have  effectually  guarded  us  from  the  insidious 
perils  of  proximity  ;  and  since,  whatever  infe 
licities  we  may  call  our  own,  we  are  spared  for 
the  present  the  traditional  dullness  of  daily 
intercourse,  we  ought  by  good  rights  to  escape 
a  lot  of  conventional  rubbish,  the  advice  and 
warnings  of  elderly  prigs  and  all  threadbare 
epigrams  on  wedlock.  Deign  to  leave  me  this 
compensation.  The  wise  man,  you  remember, 
is  thankful  that  "thorns  have  roses." 

But  how  your  letter  got  its  extra  chill  ?  In 
a  man's  breast  pocket  —  in  a  lifeboat  —  in  a 
storm.  We  were  all  drenched  to  the  skin,  but 
the  poor  child's  long  wet  hair  is,  I  think,  what 
did  the  mischief,  when  I  slipped  my  coat  under 


A   FELLOWE  AND  HIS  WIFE  13 

her  head  on  the  sand.  Captain  Albrecht  of 
the  Nautilus,  bound  for  Copenhagen,  ran  his 
ship  on  the  Witch's  Tooth,  at  nine  o'clock,  All 
Saints'  Eve  —  how,  God  knows,  for  the  man 
does  not  drink  a  drop,  and  is  as  familiar  with 
these  waters  as  I  with  my  own  woods.  It  is 
one  of  those  ghastly  things  that  happen  now 
and  then  to  men  responsible  for  human  lives, 
and  make  them  curse  the  day  they  were  born 
and  believe  in  the  direct  interposition  of  Satan. 
Albrecht  has  been  here,  helpless,  broken,  fairly 
writhing  in  agony,  but  what  can  I  do  ?  Five 
corpses  lay  on  the  shore — the  price  of  a 
moment's  inattention,  of  a  lifetime's  trained, 
tense  vigilance  relaxed  by  a  hair's  breadth  — 
one  tardy  vibration  in  his  mental  machinery, 
or  ill-luck  —  call  it  what  you  will.  They've 
cashiered  him,  of  course.  There  's  absolutely 
nothing  else  to  do,  but  it 's  hard  lines  all  the 
same,  and  I  never  again  want  to  see  a  fine 
grayhaired  fellow  of  fifty-seven  sobbing  like  a 
woman  in  my  study.  His  horror  and  remorse 
at  the  thought  of  the  dead  move  him  more  than 
his  own  disgrace.  Poor  devil  !  I  confess,  as 


14  A   FELLOWE  AND  HIS  WIFE 

I  looked  at  him  and  his  stranded  prospects,  it 
seemed  to  me,  for  a  moment,  that  the  kindest 
thing  I  could  do  would  be  to  offer  him  my  re 
volver  and  a  quiet  nook  in  the  park.  But  he 
has  a  wife  and  young  children.  She  is  good, 
I  am  told,  and  brave.  I  hope,  with  her,  there 
may  be  a  chance  for  him  yet.  But  for  such 
misery  there  is  no  help  on  earth  except  from 
a  loving  woman.  (You  see,  Use,  we  men  are 
cynics  not  so  much  in  our  hearts  as  in  our 
epigrams.)  I  have  advised  him  to  leave  the 
country  at  once,  and  shall  run  over  to  Stral- 
sund  to  look  after  them  a  little,  after  his  wife 
knows  all. 

You  should  have  seen  our  fishermen  turn 
out  that  night.  You  know  that  when  the 
Kruse  brothers  and  cousins  move  in  any  course 
they  are  as  one  tranquil  spirit,  and  if  they  are 
but  getting  in  their  rye  and  barley,  it  is  a 
pleasure  to  watch  them.  But  when  with  their 
quiet  eyes  and  the  gentle  inflexibility  of  their 
mouths  they  face  danger,  they  are  superb.  It 
was  good  to  see  the  slumbering  giant  in  them 
wake.  It  seemed  impossible  to  launch  the 


A   FELLOWE  AND  HIS  WIFE  15 

boats.  We  were  lashed  back  again  and  again. 
Holzer  jammed  his  right  arm  against  the  pier, 
so  I  slipped  in  at  the  last  moment  in  his  place. 
Luckily  the  steamer  was  near  the  shore,  for 
it  was  altogether  the  toughest  pull  we  ever 
had  here,  in  the  teeth  of  one  of  our  stiff  north 
east  gales. 

Of  sixty  passengers,  ten  are  unrecovered  ; 
we  've  buried  five  by  the  chapel  on  the  hill ;  the 
others,  warmed  and  fed,  have  gone  their  way, 
except  the  girl  —  Margot  is  her  name  —  who 
at  this  moment  is  presumably  continuing  to  do 
what  she  has  done  for  three  days,  that  is,  lie 
on  her  back  and  stare  at  the  ceiling  with  the 
largest,  most  touching  eyes  I  ever  saw.  Her  fa 
ther  and  mother  are  drowned.  We  thought  she 
was,  and  it 's  a  pity  she  's  not,  poor  little  pale 
waif !  Walpurga  has  put  her  in  the  tower-room, 
because  it  gets  the  sun  on  all  sides.  The  child 
does  not  moan,  or  shed  a  tear,  or  speak,  only 
looks  unutterably  forlorn  and  still.  It  is  quite 
uncanny.  If  she  'd  wail  and  tear  her  hair,  I 
should  be  greatly  relieved,  but  this  amount  of 
repressed  sorrow  in  a  mere  child  —  she  looks 


1 6  A   FELLOWE  AND  HIS  WIFE 

about  fifteen  —  is  appalling.  When  I  ask  her 
if  she  's  not  feeling  better,  she  answers,  "  Yes, 
thanks,"  in  a  weary  little  voice,  and  I  have  n't 
the  heart  to  "rouse  "  her,  as  the  doctor  says, 
and  make  her  talk.  She  does  not  care  a  straw 
where  she  is  or  what  is  to  become  of  her.  She 
only  knows  that  she  has  lost  her  father,  her 
mother,  and  her  home.  For  my  part,  I  intend 
to  respect  her  silence  and  her  grief.  Child  as 
she  is,  nobody  shall  intrude  upon  her  sorrow 
in  my  house.  She  shall  lie  there  and  stare  as 
long  as  she  likes.  Happily,  the  servants  can 
not  annoy  her,  for  she  speaks  only  French. 
Her  father  was  a  German,  Ernst  Borike  —  we 
found  cards  in  his  pocket-book  —  who  appar 
ently  had  lived  in  France  and  married  a  French 
woman.  But  there  will  be  time  enough  later 
to  learn  little  Margot's  story,  and  where  her 
relatives  are,  and  to  whom  I  must  send  her, 
after  she  comes  back  to  earth. 

You  will  admit,  Use,  that  a  few  things  have 
happened ;  we  have  not  been  quite  tame  since 
you  left  us.  The  whole  Jaromar  clan,  Schloss 
and  village,  have  worked  manfully,  and  old 


A   FELLOWE  AND  HIS  WIFE 


Malte  and  I  have  had  our  hands  full  enough, 
for  some  of  the  shipwrecked  people  lost  their 
money  and  clothing,  and  some  their  wits  — 
less  easy  to  supply.  From  the  high  palace 
windows  where  my  lady  leans  gazing  across 
Rome  upon  the  Campagna  —  that  far-off  seek 
ing  look  in  her  eyes,  and  the  corners  of  her 
mouth  tipped  up  adorably  —  and  disdains 
Prime  Ministers  and  all  humdrum  things,  let 
no  lofty  commiseration  descend  upon  her  for 
saken  home.  We  do  not  deserve  it,  at  least 
not  yet.  For  had  you  seen  the  struggle,  the 
still,  dogged  courage  of  our  men,  the  dead  on 
the  beach,  the  desolate  eyes  of  the  orphan, 
and  an  honest  man  in  disgrace  so  hopeless 
that  death  would  be  a  boon  to  him,  your  heart 
would  have  throbbed  almost  as  fast,  per 
haps,  as  when  the  sculptor-fellow  praised  your 
Diver.  Don't  frown,  Use.  It  is  indeed  a 
pretty  toy.  I  like  the  little  beggar  more,  it 
may  be,  than  you  suspect.  Yet  there  are  bet 
ter  things.  It  is  not  all  of  life. 

But  this  draws  me  temptingly  near  our  old 
battle-ground,    and    you    have    most    astutely 


1 8  A   FELLOWE  AND  HIS  WIFE 

bound  me  over  to  keep  the  peace,  so  far  at 
least  as  the  quarrelsome  propensities  of  a  no 
toriously  turbulent  race  will  permit.  And  for 
how  long  ?  That  you  forgot  to  stipulate,  wise 
as  you  are.  Till  Christmas,  say  ?  Before  the 
old  year  dies,  it  is  fitting  that  a  man  speak  his 
mind  to  himself,  his  neighbor,  the  stranger 
within  his  gates,  and  the  wife  —  in  Rome. 

As  for  the  turbulent  race  —  what  evil-tem 
pered  rascals  they  were,  my  high-nosed  ances 
tors  !  How  horribly  afraid  of  them  I  used  to 
be  when  I  was  little,  and  Malte  used  to  prime 
me  with  blood-curdling  tales  of  the  family 
murders  and  phantoms,  as  conscientiously  as 
he  taught  me  to  ride  and  shoot.  Since  then 
my  pedigree,  considering  that  there  is  more 
than  a  thousand  mouldy  years  of  it,  has  cer 
tainly  been  a  vastly  light  weight  on  my  mind. 
To-day,  however,  I  am  led  to  reflect  upon  the 
moody,  scowling  row  in  the  gallery,  because  I 
have  to  pass  them  on  my  occasional  journeys 
to  and  from  the  tower. 

A  pretty  bad  lot  they  must  have  been, 
every  man  of  them  gnawing  his  nether  lip  like 


A   PEL  LOWE  AND  HIS  WIFE 


Mephisto  himself.  If  I  gnaw  mine  less,  it  is 
no  doubt  due  to  the  influences  of  a  certain 
sunny  but  thorough-going  tyranny  to  which  I 
have  been  subjected  as  boy  and  man. 

Perhaps,  indeed,  the  old  bandits  are  gnaw 
ing  specially  and  offensively  at  me  just  now. 
They  prefer  feudal,  not  to  say  savage,  matri 
monial  methods.  They  knew  enough  to  seize 
the  woman  they  wanted,  lock  her  in  a  stout 
castle,  and  make  mince-meat  of  any  man  that 
approached.  Naturally,  they  disapprove  of 
me,  and  there  come  moments  when  I  disap 
prove  of  myself,  and  long,  with  a  kind  of  Ber 
serker  rage,  to  revert  to  their  uncompromising 
fashions.  This,  no  doubt,  is  atavism.  It 
passes,  and  I  am  again  the  modern  man,  Odo, 
your  old  playmate  and  life-long  friend.  Call 
ing  myself  your  husband  is  but  a  farce,  which 
I  play  awkwardly  enough.  But  your  friend, 
that  I  am,  first,  last,  always  ;  and  your  lover, 
when  you  will.  Never  believe  me  patient, 
yet  never  for  an  instant  lose  your  trust  in  me. 
You  are  free  as  air  until  you  voluntarily  lay 
your  hands  in  mine.  Let  the  world  wonder. 


2O  A   FELLOWE  AND  HIS  WIFE 

You  and  I  know  what  path  we  have  chosen, 
and  why.  We  are  accountable  only  to  our 
selves.  You  shall  have  your  free  flight. 
Never  mind  my  grumbling.  What  whim  of 
yours  did  I  ever  fail  to  aid  ?  Not  that  this  is 
a  whim,  dear.  The  word  is  ill-chosen.  For 
give  it. 

You  will  not  now  call  me  constrained.  It 
was  this,  unspoken,  which  you  felt  between 
the  lines  of  my  last  letter.  An  idle  jest 
opened  the  way  to-day,  yet  it  is  well,  for  we 
had  little  time  together  at  the  last ;  and  there 
are  things  one  cannot  say  between  the  oysters 
and  salad,  and  a  fringe  of  solicitous  aunts  — 
and  the  thought  of  your  absence  lay  like  lead 
on  my  heart.  In  books,  parting  friends  are 
eloquent ;  in  life,  they  can  find  but  common 
place,  insignificant  words.  At  all  events,  I 
stared,  stammered  —  and  you  were  gone. 

I  am  glad,  too,  that  I  can  follow  your 
course,  tread  Roman  streets  and  see  Roman 
sights  with  you.  I  wish  you  your  heart's 
desire.  Kind  messages  to  friends  who  are 
kind  to  you.  I  thought  you  intended  to  avoid 


A   FELLOWE  AND  HIS  WIFE  21 

general  society,  and  already  you  figure  in  the 
personal  column  of  the  Fanfulla  ?  Not  that 
it  matters  much.  Those  newspaper  cads 
clutch  all  things  in  heaven  and  earth  now 
adays. 

Lebewohl.  In  your  poor  little  mangled, 
desecrated  letter  a  good  angel  has  kept  one 
precious  place  clear  and  unharmed  forme  — 
your  remembrance  of  our  day  together  in  the 
Vilm  forest.  I  have  kissed  it  many  times.  I 
kiss  and  bless  the  hand  that  wrote  it. 

ODO. 


Ill 

FROM    THE   COUNTESS    TO    COUNT   VON   JAROMAR. 

Palazzo  Malaspina,  Home, 

1 2th  November. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND  : 

Your  letter,  so  like  yourself,  has  touched 
me  deeply.  Never  for  an  instant  believe  that 
I  can  be  forgetful  of  or  indifferent  to*  our  dear 
Jaromar  and  all  its  associations.  But  I  won 
der  if  you  will  understand  me  when  I  say  that, 
at  the  moment  —  is  it  mood  ?  is  it  some  subtle 
change  that  comes  with  change  ?  —  I  am  not 
so  much  an  alien  in  a  foreign  land  as  —  how 
shall  I  say  it  ?  —  the  recipient  of  a  welcome 
letter  coming  to  me  from  a  strange  country. 
Now  that  I  have  written  it,  my  thought  or 
fancy  seems  crude,  banale  almost.  But  per 
haps  you  will  understand  ;  I  hope  so.  Yes 
terday  I  was  modeling  my  Undine,  and  I  can 
not  tell  you  what  keen  and  strange  delight 
the  conscious  shaping  of  my  ductile  material 


A   PEL  LOWE  AND   HIS  WIFE  2$ 

gave  me,  the  mere  manipulation  of  it,  even, 
I  am  tempted  to  say.  I  felt  as  though  a  year 
had  passed  since  I  had  done  anything.  Yes 
terday  Friedrich  Herwegh  called  upon  me, 
and  I  remember  one  thing  that  he  uttered, 
with  that  enigmatic  turn  which  I  recognize  as 
characteristic  of  him.  "  There  is  no  geogra 
phy  in  art,  and  yet  perhaps  the  south  must 
ever  hold  herself  aloof  from  the  north." 
"  And  then  ? "  I  rejoined,  half  laughingly, 
glancing  at  him  in  a  surprise  by  no  means 
feigned.  But  he  only  looked  at  me  gravely, 
then  at  my  little  clay  model.  "  Speak  to  me 
about  your  north,"  he  exclaimed  suddenly,  and 
with  equal  abruptness  offered  me  a  chair,  and 
made  ready  to  seat  himself  near.  What  a 
strange  man  he  is !  He  interests  me  deeply. 
I  like  a  man  to  bear  the  insignia  of  his  race. 
And  yet,  strangely  enough,  I  am  the  more 
drawn  to  Herwegh  from  the  fact  that  he  is 
not  unmistakably  a  German.  He  might  be 
long  to  almost  any  European  nation,  and  he 
might  readily  be  taken  for  an  American.  He 
has  that  rapid  adaptability  which  enables  him 


24  A   FELLOWE  AND  HIS  WIFE 

to  be  of  the  nation  of  whatever  sympathetic 
companion  he  may  be  with.     In  appearance 
he  is  a  dark  Scandinavian,  as  tall  and  athletic 
almost  as  you,  my  dear  Odo,  and  perhaps  of 
a  paler  complexion  than  the  true  northerner 
generally  is.     Thus   it  is,  combined  with   his 
rare  linguistic  fluency,  that  he  is  by  turns  a 
Prussian  or  a  South  German,  an  Italian  or  a 
Spaniard,  a  Slav  or  a  Briton,  a  Frenchman  or 
an  American.     In  a  word,  he  is  a  typical  cos 
mopolitan.     I  fear  I  must  seem  very  parochial 
to   him.     And   yet  —  but    enough    of    Signor 
Herwegh  ;  I  want  to  s^eak  to  you  about  my 
self.     How  happy  I  am  here !     I  have  often 
heard  people  say  that   Rome  is  a  depressing 
place  to  dwell  in.     It  may  be  so,  but  to  me  it 
is  a  stimulus  as  well  as  a  delight.     I  could  be 
quite  content  here  if  I  did  not  know  a  soul. 
I  smiled   when   I   read    those   words   in    your 
letter   about   my    intention    to    avoid    general 
society  ;  of  course  it  is  my  intention   to  do 
so.     But  you  men  are  so  funny ;  if  you  say 
that  you  are  not  going  to  gamble,  you  will 
not  even  look  at  the   coins  in  your  pocket. 


A    FELLOWE   AND  HIS  WIFE  2$ 

Now,  I  have  less  than  ever  the  intention  to 
gamble,  but  I  was  dull,  in  a  natural  reaction 
after  all  my  traveling  and  excitement,  and 
when  the  opportunity  suddenly  came  in  my 
way,  I  rose  to  it  as  suddenly  as  the  salmon  to 
the  unexpected  and  tantalizing  fly.  People 
talk  of  Latin  taste,  and  even  these  dear  igno 
rant  Italians  repeat  the  favorite  catchword  of 
Paris ;  but  I  assure  you  that  I  never  before 
saw  so  many  ill-dressed  women.  There  was 
one  Roman  principessa  clad  in  staring  blue 
silk  all  figured  over  with  virulently  scarlet 
poppies  —  oh,  no,  I  cannot  even  recall  her 
without  a  shudder. 

No,  I  am  living  so  quietly  that  the  Rohrichs 
smilingly  affirm  that  I  shall  be  known  as  a 
second  Hilda.  Do  you  know  that  Transforma 
tion  was  one  of  the  books  —  Andersen's  Im- 
provisatore  was  the  other  —  that  used,  in  my 
girlhood,  literally  to  fever  me  with  a  longing 
for  Rome  and  Italy  ?  How  strange  that  it 
was  you  who  lent  me  these  books  :  the  first  in 
translation,  for  I  did  not  then  know  English. 
And  yet,  why  strange  ?  Do  you  puzzle  your- 


26  A    PEL  LOWE   AND  HIS  WIFE 

self  like  this  sometimes,  Odo  ?  I  do,  often  ; 
about  you,  sometimes  ;  about  myself,  frequent 
ly.  This  duality  is  so  bewildering.  I  to  be 
myself,  whom  you  know,  and  whom  I  know  — 
and  then  that  other  I,  whom  you  do  not  know 
at  all,  and  whom  I  only  catch  glimpses  of  as 
in  a  mirror,  or  hear  whispering  for  a  moment 
in  the  twilight. 

Hilda  ?  No,  I  am  not  a  Hilda,  though  I 
seem  to  know  her  intimately.  How  delightful 
it  will  be,  some  day  in  the  hot  summertide, 
when  we  are  too  idle  to  read  and  too  light- 
hearted  to  dream,  to  carry  on  for  ourselves  the 
lives  of  some  of  those  men  and  women  of 
fiction  in  whom  we  have  been  profoundly  in 
terested.  Can  you  tell  me  Hilda's  secret  story  ? 
What  will  you  give  me  if  I  relate  to  you  a 
new  version  of  the  latter  clays  of  Helen  of 
Troy  ?  Would  you  be  interested  to  learn  the 
inner  life  of  Petrarch's  Laura,  of  Michel  An- 
gelo's  Vittoria  ?  Is  there  another  side  to  the 
story  of  Andrea  del  Sarto  and  his  Lucrezia  ? 
Can  you  tell  me  the  thoughts  of  Barbarossa  as 
he  grew  his  red  beard,  or  the  dreams  of  Theo- 


A   FELLOWE   AND   HIS  WIFE  2/ 

doric  the  Goth  while  he  looked  out  upon  the 
south  from  his  villa  by  the  Latin  sea  ?  Would 
you  like  to  see  what  Lili  —  no,  what  Charlotte 
von  Stein  chanced  to  be  writing  in  her  senti 
mental  journal  on  that  evening  when,  after 
three  sleepless  nights  in  consequence  of  Zim- 
mermann's  description  of  her,  Goethe  wrote 
below  her  portrait  :  "  What  a  glorious  poem  it 
would  be  to  see  how  the  world  mirrors  itself 
in  this  soul !  "  If  you  will  tell  me  the  rare 
imagings  of  Georges  Sand  when  Chopin  played 
to  her  in  the  gloaming,  I  will  perplex  you  with 
the  strange  thoughts  of  Emilia  Viviani  after 
the  English  poet  left  her  and  wrote  his  mar 
velous  Epipsychidion.  But  we  must  distin 
guish  ;  we  will  not  waste  our  time  with  com 
monplace  or  vulgar  personages.  We  have 
too  many  acquaintances  of  the  kind  about  us 
always  !  No,  I  would  give  my  Diver  for  a 
fantastic  history  of  Heine's  Sefchen  or  for  the 
diary  of  Gaspara  Stampa  —  that  "  Saffo  di 
nostro  tempo"  -but  I  would  not  thank  you 
for  all  the  secrets  of  Byron's  famous  lady-love, 
La  Guiccioli.  Ah,  what  a  wonderful  poem, 


28  A   FELLOWE  AND  HIS  WIFE 

the  Epipsychidion !  I  am  glad  that  I  know 
English,  if  only  to  read  it.  In  these  last*days 
I  have  heard  much  of  this  author,  Shelley : 
that  he  was  a  strange  man,  and  died  young. 
His  ashes  are  buried  in  the  beautiful  old  God's- 
acre  here,  close  to  the  Pyramid  of  Caius  Cestius. 
Another  beloved  young  English  poet,  whose 
writings  I  do  not  know,  is  buried  close  by. 
Some  day  we  must  read  together  the  finest 
things  of  Shelley,  and  this  poor  young  Keats. 
A  year  or  two  ago,  I  remember,  I  read  some 
thing  by  the  former  ;  a  long  poem  which  I  did 
not  understand  aright,  and  so  did  not  care  for. 
But  two  nights  ago,  at  the  Heideloffs',  there 
was  an  Englishman,  a  writer  (I  did  not  catch 
his  name),  and  Herwegh,  who  was  there  also, 
said  something  about  Shelley's  grave,  and  this 
led  on  to  his  admission  that  a  rich  American 
had  commissioned  him  to  make  a  life-size 
statue  of  Shelley.  This  induced  an  animated 
discussion,  and,  somewhat  to  my  surprise,  I 
found  that  Herwegh  is  an  enthusiastic  admirer 
of  this  English  poet  —  and  indeed  is  a  student 
and  lover  of  all  English  poets.  You  will  un- 


A   FELLOWE  AND  HIS  WIFE 


29 


derstand,  therefore,  with  what  pleasure  I  pro 
mised  to  avail  myself  of  his  generous  offer  to 
discuss  and  read  to  me  on  this  subject.  He 
talks  as  well  as  knows  English  so  thoroughly, 
that  the  Heideloffs'  English  guest  evidently 
took  him  to  be  a  compatriot.  This  is  a 
splendid  opportunity  for  me,  as  you  are  aware 
how  anxious  I  am  to  know  intimately  the  lan 
guage  and  literature  of.  this  people,  whom,  in 
common  with  yourself,  I  at  once  like  and  dis 
like,  admire  and  feel  unattracted  by.  I  am 
paradoxical,  you  see.  Herwegh  says  that  a 
woman  utters  paradoxes  by  the  grace  of  God, 
and  a  man  only  from  maladroit  wit.  When  he 
came  to  see  me  yesterday,  I  asked  .him  about 
the  poem  Epipsychidion,  which  he  had  so  en 
thusiastically  praised.  He  at  once  recited  it 
to  me.  I  cannot  tell  you  how  deeply  I  was 
impressed.  Shelley  must  have  been  half  a 
woman.  I  have  been  in  a  kind  of  dream  ever 
since.  After  we  returned  from  the  old  Pro 
testant  cemetery  —  did  I  tell  you  that  Her 
wegh  kindly  drove  me  thither  yesterday  to  see 
the  graves  of  Shelley  and  Keats,  and  others  of 


30  A   FELLOWE   AND  HIS  WIFE 

all  nations  at  rest  there  in  that  beautiful  spot  ? 
—  I  sat  for  a  long  time  through  the  late  after 
noon,  dreaming  that  I  was  Emilia  Viviani.  I 
sat  at  the  open  window  beside  the  little  balcony 
outside  my  room.  A  rare  pink  flush  lay  over 
Rome.  Beyond  the  Vatican  the  wind  played 
in  the  sky  with  fugitive  wisps  of  vapor  ;  long 
streaks,  invisibly  beginning  and  invisibly  van 
ishing,  and  only  midway  fringed  like  floating 
seaweed  or  spraying  upward  like  thin  snow 
before  a  skater's  feet.  A  little  later  the  flush 
became  amethyst.  Suddenly  a  score  or  more 
of  white  pigeons  flew  upwards  from  the  foun 
tain  in  the  Piazza  di  Spagna,  and  circled  round 
and  round  before  me,  the  upper  wings  of  this 
bird-cloud  touched  with  gleams  of  purple  or 
gold.  They  rose  and  sank  and  rose  again. 
Strange,  how  such  a  thing  should  fascinate  one 
so  profoundly  !  I  watched  them  entranced. 
Suddenly  they  rose,  wheeled,  and  then,  like 
one  broad  white  pinion,  swayed  in  a  long  slope, 
out  of  sight,  westward.  The  beautiful  flush 
over  Rome  was  now  almost  a  wine-dark  purple. 
Though  the  day  was  not  gone,  I  could  see  a 


A   FELL  OWE   AND   HIS  WIFE  31 

star  in  the  heart  of  the  purple,  wavering  like 
a  white  light  at  a  far-off  casement.  And  still 
I  was  Emilia  Viviani.  Do  not  think  me  foolish, 
Odo.  I  could  not  stay  in  my  room  any  more, 
so  I  went  out,  up  the  Via  Sistina,  to  Santa 
Trinita  dei  Monti,  to  hear  the  nuns  singing 
Ave  Maria.  It  did  me  good — every  way. 
There  was  one  of  the  good  sisters  who  had  a 
voice  in  which  lived  the  inmost  spirit  of  her 
life,  a  lost,  thwarted,  loving,  utterly  desolate 
life.  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  her.  She  was 
young  and  beautiful  —  or  had  been.  When  I 
stepped  on  to  the  terrace, -which  commands  so 
superb  a  view  of  Rome,  I  met  Herwegh.  He, 
too,  must  have  been  in  Santa  Trinita,  and  must 
have  seen  my  nun.  He  bowed  gravely,  and 
passed  on,  but  as  he  did  so  he  remarked,  "  Yet, 
we  are  told,  youth  is  a  continual  intoxication." 
I  don't  know  how  it  is  that  I  am  often 
so  struck  by  what  Herwegh  says.  It  is  not 
always  his  words,  nor  their  epigrammatic 
phrasing :  neither  is  it  his  manner.  I  find 
myself  very  much  in  sympathy  with  him. 
However,  I  suppose  I  '11  see  little  of  this 


32  A   PEL  LOWE  AND  HIS  WIFE 

illustrissimo  scultore  henceforth.  He  is  a  very 
busy  man,  and,  I  understand,  also  goes  out 
into  society  a  good  deal.  I  am  at  once  glad 
and  sorry.  But,  after  all,  the  more  isolation 
I  live  in,  meanwhile,  the  better  for  me  and  my 
aim  in  art.  By  the  way,  what  do  you  think 
was  the  effect  on  me  of  yesterday  afternoon, 
and  (perhaps)  of  the  nun's  singing  ?  I  put 
aside  my  Undine,  and  am  thinking  over  an 
ideal  bust  in  poco  of  Emilia  Viviani.  This 
dead  woman,  whom  I  know  of  only  through  an 
English  poet's  rhapsody,  has  taken  strange 
hold  upon  my  imagination.  For  some  inscru 
table  reason  —  some  ridiculous  whim,  might 
be  truer  —  I  have  conceived  a  dislike  of  her, 
even  while  she  attracts  me.  But  enough  ;  I 
shall  tire  you. 

My  dear  Odo,  this  is  already  a  long  letter, 
and  yet  I  have  taken  almost  no  notice  of  the 
strange  episode  you  narrate  in  yours.  Do  not, 
please,  think  me  unfeeling  or  indifferent.  Be 
lieve  me,  I  have  thought  often  and  much  of 
what  you  wrote,  and  of  all  concerned,  of  the 
poor  drowned-  people,  and  of  those  who  wait 


A   FELL  OWE  AND  HIS  WIFE  33 

afar  off  hoping  for  their  return,  of  those  whom 
you  have  succored,  and  of  poor  Captain 
Albrecht,  for  whom  I  am  sorrowful  indeed  ; 
and,  above  all,  of  your  brave  dear  self.  Little 
did  I  think  that  my  poor  little  letter  was  to  be 
so  sore  beset.  I  hope  this  next  northward 
swallow  will  be  a  more  fortunate  as  well  as  a 
more  welcome  harbinger.  Are  you  suscep 
tible  to  those  subtle  influences  which,  in 
absence,  are  like  spirits  that  wind  an  invisi 
ble  veil  around  our  memories,  and  swathe  in 
some  "fibre  of  oblivion"  certain  keys  in  the 
instrument  of  our  life,  and  even  missuade  us 
by  illusory  lights  and  shadows  which  we  un 
wittingly  take  to  be  our  own  thoughts,  fancies, 
impulses  ?  Or,  I  wonder,  are  men  and  w.omen 
really  different  au  fond?  I  heard  that  foreigner 
at  the  Heideloffs',  the  other  night,  say  that 
Newton  had  discovered  the  law  of  gravitation, 
that  Darwin  had  demonstrated  the  secret  of 
evolution,  that  Leeuwenhoek  had  determined 
the  pulse  of  an  insect  and  the  constitution  of 
a  germ,  and  that  very  soon  we  would  be  as 
familiar  with  the  life  of  Mars  as  with  the  origin 


34  A   FELLOWE  AND  HIS  WIFE 

of  coal ;  but  where  was  the  man  who  had  really 
explored  the  inmost  recesses  of  a  woman's 
heart,  or  observed  the  hidden  sources  of  those 
fugitive  motives  which  differentiate  her  from 
the  male  of  her  species  ?  We  all  laughed,  but 
no  one  answered.  After  a  little,  Herwegh 
made  the  only  trite  remark  I  have  ever  heard 
him  utter  :  "  We  have  all  heard  much  about 
the  laying  bare  of  the  secret  of  '  Darkest 
Africa,'  but  a  greater  than  a  whole  army  of 
explorers  will  be  the  '  Stanley  of  Woman 
hood.'  '  It  was  somewhat  commonplace  after 
the  other,  but  it  made  us  smile  again,  and 
lifted  us  into  a  blither  current  of  conversation. 
Still,  I  am  puzzled.  I  wonder  if  you  could 
help  me,  Odo.  A  great  many  things  have 
been  passing  through  my  mind  recently.  For 
one  thing,  I  am  disquieted  on  a  certain  point 
concerning  which  I  promised  you  to  be  silent. 
But  I  must  ask  you  to  absolve  me.  I  think 
you  will  guess  what  I  mean.  Oh,  Odo,  I  do 
wish  to  support  myself,  to  be  myself,  to  feel 
that  I,  a  woman,  am  not  a  mere  appendage. 
Do  not  mistake  me,  I  pray  you.  I  am  not 


A   FELLOWE  AND  HIS  WIFE  35 

fretting  at  being  so  deeply  indebted  to  you. 
I  would  fain  hope  myself  free  of  the  pettiness 
of  conceiving  your  generous  love  as  a  bondage, 
however  kindly  veiled.  It  is  not  that  I,  Use 
Jaromar,  wish  to  be  free  of  monetary  indebt 
edness  to  you,  my  husband  ;  but  that  I,  Use 
Ilsenstein,  feel  that  I  can  be  neither  the  artist 
I  aspire  to  become  nor  the  woman  I  would 
fain  be,  if,  voluntarily  or  involuntarily,  I  follow 
in  the  footsteps  of  another.  My  friend,  is  it 
not  better  so  ?  Perhaps  we  do,  deep  down, 
regard  life  from  a  different  standpoint.  It 
may  be.  I  do  not  even  venture  to  say  that  I 
regret  it,  if  so  it  be.  Regrets  are  useless  in 
the  face  of  facts.  One  thinks  of  the  nonagena 
rian  sage  who  spent  the  seventy  mature  years 
of  his  life  in  regretting  the  inevitableness  of 
his  death,  and  died  at  last  with  only  a  single 
emotion  left  —  regref  that  he  had  regretted. 
Honestly,  my  friend,  I  am  in  great  perplexity. 
I  have  pondered  my  affairs  closely.  You 
know  that  my  aunt,  Hedwig  von  Eulenburg, 
left  me  a  legacy  of  a  few  thousand  marks,  to 
be  paid  to  me  on  my  wedding.  Now,  I  have 


36  A   FELLOWE   AND  HIS  WIFE 

deducted  all  the  marriage  expenses  in  which  I, 
personally,  was  involved,  and  those  incurred 
here  in  Rome  and  en  route.  I  find  that,  al 
lowing  for  my  indebtedness  to  the  Rohrichs 
and  for  living  and  working  expenses,  I  shall  still 
have,  at  the  beginning  of  the  new  year,  which 
is  already  drawing  in  upon  us,  no  less  a  sum 
than  an  amount  well  on  the  right  side  of  five 
thousand  marks.  Now,  I  would  rather  expend 
this  little  capital  in  the  way  that  seems  to  me 
most  to  my  own  good;  and  to  this  end  I  ask 
your  help.  I  should  add  that  I  can  hardly 
fail  to  make  at  least  a  living  with  my  chisel. 
Herwegh  assures  me  that  in  this  respect  the 
way  is  clear  before  me.  Now,  Odo,  will  you 
let  me  repay  the  money  you  have  so  gener 
ously  advanced  ?  Nay,  dear  friend,  I  must  not 
word  my  wish  so,  in  justice  to  myself  as  well 
as  to  you  :  I  must  repay  it.  If  you  cannot,  or 
will  not,  meet  me,  then  at  least  will  you  take 
this  money  that  I  enclose,  and  put  it  at  Frau 
Albrecht's  disposal  ?  It  will  help  her  to  live 
over  a  bitter  time.  And  you,  sposo  mio,  will 
understand  me  in  this  ?  I  am  not  cutting  my- 


A   FELLOWE  AND  HIS  WIFE  37 

self  off  from  you,  Odo  ;  but  as  a  woman,  as 
well  as  an  artist,  I  wish  to  stand  alone  for  a 
time.  To  a  proud  woman  —  and  I  need  not 
tell  you  that  I  am  proud  —  this  occasional  iso 
lation  is  as  necessary  as  solitude  to  the  stu 
dent.  I  cannot  explain  more  just  now.  But 
do  you  so  far  understand  ?  Will  you  respect 
my  wish  ?  Bah  !  how  foolish  of  me  ;  there  is 
a  caller,  and  here  I  am  with  flushed  face  and 
tremulous  pulse. 

Later. 

It  was  only  Friedrich  Herwegh.  I  must 
hurriedly  finish  this  letter.  He  and  the  Hei- 
deloffs  are  going  this  evening  to  the  German 
Ambassador's  —  "an  informal  coffee,"  Her 
wegh  calls  it  —  and  I  am  going  with  them. 
Only  a  few  friends  are  to  be  there  ;  no  "  dress 
ing  "  I  am  glad  to  say.  What  do  you  think 
my  wicked  sculptor  said  ?  He  had  jocularly 
asked  me  if  I  were  writing  a  romance.  "  Yes," 
I  replied,  "  I  have  been  writing  about  a  wo 
man's  inner  life."  He  smiled.  I  did  not  like 
it.  I  added,  "  And  I  was  writing  about  a  wo 
man's  power  of  holding  her  true  self  inviolate." 


38  A   FELLOWE   AND  HIS  WIFE 

"  At  Waterloo,"  he  said,  with  quiet  sarcasm, 
"General  Cambronne  remarked,  'The  French 
Guard  dies,  but  does  not  surrender.'  Now, 
wherein  women  differ  from  the  French  Guard 
is,  that  they  surrender  but  do  not  die."  I  stared 
haughtily,  and  plainly  showed  my  resentment, 
but,  with  a  mocking  smile,  he  bowed  and  was 
gone. 

Well,  lebewohl,  my  dear  friend,  I  shall  post 
this  to-night,  but  I  shall  write  soon  again. 

Hurriedly  but  affectionately  yours, 

ILSE. 

P.  S.  That  poor  little  Margot.  I  am  so 
sorry  for  her.  I  hope  you  will  soon  be  able  to 
send  her  back  to  her  people  ;  for  her  own  sake 
she  ought  not  to  be  kept  long  among  foreign 
ers,  however  kind.  Poor  child !  Tell  me,  is 
she  dark  or  fair  ?  and  how  old  is  she  ?  and  — 
but  I  must  go.  — Addio! 


IV 

FROM   THE   SAME   TO   THE   SAME. 

Palazzo  Malaspina, 

November  13. 

MY  DEAR  ODO  : 

I  had  the  most  delightful  evening.  The 
informal  gathering  at  our  Ambassador's  was 
really  a  family  affair.  I  did  not  know  that 
Lotta  Heideloff  was  his  cousin ;  as  for  Her- 
wegh,  though  no  relation,  he  had  a  right  there 
as  an  old  and  intimate  friend.  For  myself,  I 
felt  de  trap.  To  my  delight,  I  managed  to  slip 
away  after  a  little,  unobserved  of  my  friend. 
I  took  a  vettura  and  drove  to  the  Pincio.  Oh, 
the  sweet  autumnal  air  !  I  stood  for  some 
time  watching  Rome  in  its  afternoon  glow. 
Trastevere  gleamed  like  an  onyx.  Along  the 
broad  avenue  below  me,  leading  circuitously 
down  to  the  Piazza  del  Popolo,  a  score  of  the 
young  priests  of  the  German  College,  clad  in 
their  brilliant  scarlet  robes,  went  by.  Above 


40  A   FELLOWE  AND  HIS  WIFE 

a  house  in  or  near  the  Via  Ripetta  a  tall,  gilt 
mercury  rose,  blazing  with  sunfire,  out  of  a 
mass  of  velvety-looking  shadow.  But  I  cannot 
tell  you  all  I  noticed,  all  that  impressed  me. 
Besides,  descriptions  are  even  more  uninter 
esting  than  haphazard  daubings  on  a  palette. 
Then  I  walked  along  the  west  walk  by  the 
huge  walls  overlooking  the  Borghese's  grounds 
from  the  gardens  of  the  Pincio.  What  a  place 
for  a  tragic  encounter,  that  gloomy  Via  dell 
Mura,  which,  like  a  ravine,  divides  Prince  Bor 
ghese's  park  from  the  gardens  of  the  Pincio. 
There  was  a  rustle  among  the  pines  that  made 
my  northern  heart  suddenly  ache.  A  red 
breast,  whom  some  poet  has  aptly  called  "  the 
yellow  autumn's  nightingale,"  sang  a  poign 
antly  sweet  snatch  of  song  from  the  heart  of 
a  spurge-laurel.  A  silent  thrush  stirred  rest 
lessly  in  the  heart  of  a  dense  mass  of  ilex. 
The  silence  was  that  creative  peace  wherein 
the  soul  takes  courage  and  inhales  new  life. 
I  was  half  unconsciously  brooding  over  my 
Emilia  Viviani,  when  of  a  sudden  a  clamorous 
fanfare  of  trumpets  aroused  me  unpleasantly. 


A   FELLOWE  AND  HIS  WIFE  41 

I  did  not  wish  to  be  entertained  in  that  fashion 
at  the  moment,  so  I  walked  swiftly  across  the 
gardens.  As  I  left  the  gate,  and  stood  for  a 
few  seconds  (as  I  do  every  time  I  pass)  at 
the  beautiful  wide  fountain  under  the  ilexes 
opposite  the  French  Academy,  I  was  accosted 
by  Friedrich  Herwegh.  He  walked  home  with 
me,  and  just  as  we  reached  my  Palazzo  (ob 
serve  my  calm  possessive  case !),  we  met  Lilien 
Rohrich.  She  said  she  had  been  hunting  for 
me,  and  made  me  promise  to  come  in  during 
the  evening.  I  had  to  agree  that  I  would 
sing  also.  "  I  am  depending  upon  you  and 
Herr  Herwegh,"  she  added,  wickedly.  I  did 
not  know  he  sang.  It  appears  he  is  well 
known  socially  for  his  fine  voice.  He  told  me 
he  would  sing  a  little  English  song  that  he 
felt  sure  I  would  like. 

And  it  was  in  truth,  as  I  have  said,  a  de 
lightful  evening.  I  met  some  pleasant  people, 
and  I  was  gratified  by  the  wife  of  the  Austrian 
Ambassador,  who  has  bought  the  palace  of  the 
ruined  Prince  Annibale  Vescovi,  telling  me 
that  her  husband  was  so  delighted  with  my 


42  A   FELLOWE  AND  HIS  WIFE 

little  ivory  Diver,  that  he  would  not  be  con 
tent  till  he  had  one  or  two  rivals  from  my 
chisel.  There,  you  see,  Herwegh  was  right. 

I  sang  two  German  songs,  and  then  a  French 
one,  which  I  have  never  sung  to  you  ;  at  least, 
I  think  not.  The  words  are  by  De  Musset, 
and  begin  — 

"  Quand  on  perd 
Par  triste  occurrence 
Son  espe'rance 
Et  sa  gaietd, 
Le  remede 
Au  m^lancolique 
C'est  la  musique 
Et  la  beauteV' 

I  was  paid  such  a  charming  compliment  apro 
pos  to  the  two  closing  lines. 

Then  Herwegh  sang.  Both  his  voice  and 
the  song  itself  affected  me  strangely.  I  under 
stand  it  is  by  a  young  Jewess.  He  sings  well ; 
not,  perhaps,  so  masterfully  as  I  had  expected, 
but  with  a  certain  thrilling  lilt  which  is  irre 
sistible.  I  can  remember  only  the  first  stanza ; 
perhaps,  indeed,  it  is  the  whole  poem.  Now 
that  I  think  of  it,  I  fancy  it  is  — 


A   FELLOWE  AND  HIS  WIFE  43 


"  What  does  youth  know  of  love  ? 

Little  enough,  I  trow  ! 
He  plucks  the  myrtle  for  his  brow 
For  his  forehead  the  rose. 

Nay,  but  of  love 
It  is  not  youth  who  knows." 


Is  that  not  fine  ?  but  you  should  hear  it  wedded 
to  apt  music,  and  then  sung  by  Friedrich 
Herwegh. 

I  was  introduced  to  two  Italians.  Herwegh 
seems  to  know  them  intimately.  Lucrezia 
Mallerini  is  a  beautiful  woman.  She  is  a 
Southerner  of  Southerners  in  type.  Herwegh 
called  her  a  Graeco-Romano-Etrurian  type, 
which  is  somewhat  too  complex  for  me.  She 
gave  me  quite  an  unpleasant  sensation  ;  and 
why  ?  Do  not  laugh  ;  't  was  her  resemblance 
to  my  imaginary  Emilia  Viviani !  She  was 
very  courteous  in  her  chill  Roman  way.  Yet 
I  fancy  —  nay,  I  am  sure  —  she  does  not  take 
to  me.  She  is,  I  think,  a  little  too  conscious 
of  her  beauty.  Still  less  did  I  like  her  hus 
band,  Cesare.  He  is  tall,  dark,  with  a  for 
bidding  smile  continually  on  his  lips.  She 


44  A   FELLOWE   AND  HIS  WIFE 

would  do  for  a  Delilah,  he  for  a  —  for  a  —  well, 
I  don't  know  whom.  It  does  not  matter.  I 
dare  say  they  will  improve  upon  acquaintance 
ship,  for  I  am  to  see  something  of  them,  I 
suppose.  They  know  the  Rohrichs  fairly 
well,  and  Herwegh  almost  intimately.  I  can 
not  imagine  him  being  so  enthusiastic  as  he 
professes  about  la  bella  Lucrezia.  I  was  at 
his  studio  to-day ;  and  I  looked  to  see  if  he 
had  utilized  her  type  in  his  sculptures.  He 
had  not.  This  puzzles  me.  Alas  !  if  I  do 
not  stop,  the  German  post  will  go  without  my 
letter.  Addio,  dear  Odo. 

Yours  affectionately, 

ILSE. 
P.  S.     Tell  me  about  Margot. 


V 

FROM   THE   COUNT  TO  THE   COUNTESS  VON  JAROMAR. 

Schloss  Jaromar, 

November  16. 

OUR  Wild  Horseman  is,  I  am  convinced,  a 
greatly  maligned  spectre.  He  has  committed 
no  hideous  crime  ;  he  is  not  doomed,  in  ex 
piation  for  nameless  sins,  to  dash  frantically 
across  country  all  night  long,  scaring  beldames 
by  the  Lohme  bog,  nearly  knocking  down  be 
lated  muddled  peasants  in  tfre  black  Stubbenitz 
wood,  and  skimming  the  foam  on  the  Prora 
shore.  The  perturbed  spirit  is  simply  a  stupid 
fellow  who  has  received  tidings  from  Rome, 
a  letter  which  for  the  life  of  him  he  can't  un 
derstand,  and  which  makes  him  feel  that  he 
cannot  breathe  within  four  walls. 

It  is  one  o'clock.  Baldur  and  I  have  just 
come  home  ;  he  is  very  wet,  but  he  does  n't 
mind.  It  is  not  the  first  time  that  he  has 
helped  me  to  think. 


46  A   FELLOWE   AND  HIS  WIFE 

Use — friend,  comrade,  sister,  love,  and  wife 
for  whom  I  long,  I  cannot  quibble  and  haggle 
with  you.  I  cannot  grovel  and  beg.  I  would 
not,  if  I  could,  undo  the  past.  I  claim  the 
future,  though  it  bring  me  sorrow  worse  than 
death.  You  are  the  woman  of  my  choice,  the 
one  woman  in  the  world  to  me.  You  are  my 
fate  for  good  or  ill,  our  whole  lives  are  inter 
twined,  we  belong  to  each  other,  and  —  I  love 
you  :  therefore  I  surrender. 

But  when  you  return  to  me  a  miserable 
scrap  of  money,  you  are  well  aware  that  you 
put  between  us  more  than  the  distance  from 
Jaromar  to  Rome,  more  than  the  interminable 
year  of  separation.  You  make  something 
within  me  rise  and  howl  like  a  wounded  beast, 
then  creep  off,  sullen  and  brooding,  to  its 
den.  Never  mind.  I  cannot  dilate  upon  my 
emotions.  I  am  not  fluent  and  paradoxical, 
like  your  sculptor.  I  yield  unconditionally. 
It  seems  fitting  to  you  to  carve  little  ivory 
figures  and  sell  them  for  money.  Good.  I 
accept  this  also  at  your  hands.  If  this  is 
what  you  call  "freedom,"  if  it  makes  you  hap- 


A   FELLOWE   AND  HIS  WIFE  47 

pier,  I  can  only  fold  my  arms,  bow  my  head, 
and  wait. 

One  thing  is  certain :  I  shall  fulfill  my  part 
of  our  compact.  Because  your  father  and  I 
have  had  certain  business  relations,  or  rather, 
because  it  has  happened  to  be  in  my  power  to 
do  him  a  service,  as  it  has  often  enough  been 
in  the  power  of  an  Ilsenstein  to  stand  by  a 
Jaromar  in  need,  not  the  faintest  shadow  of 
such  transactions  shall  fall  upon  your  path. 
Not  a  feather's  weight  of  them  shall  impede 
your  movements.  Nothing  of  this  shall  touch 
you  now  or  at  any  time.  It  would  be  igno 
miny.  Knowing  me  so  well,  how  was  it  then 
possible  for  you  to  —  but  enough  said. 

You  have  wanted  for  years  to  go  to  Rome 
to  study  and  work.  I  promised  you  that  you 
should,  whoever  might  disapprove.  Even  in 
losing  you  it  was  joy  to  realize  that  you  had 
attained  your  dearest  wish  through  me.  This 
you  take  from  me.  It  is  parting  from  you 
again ;  it  is  seeing  you  go  still  farther  from 
me.  Let  us  not  talk  about  it.  But  now  you 
are  really  "free,"  are  you  not,  Use?  You 
have  no  other  surprise  in  store  for  me  ? 


48  A   FELLOWE   AND  HIS  WIFE 

Down  by  the  Jasmund  cliffs  I  dismounted 
and  walked  up  and  down  for  a  while,  Baldur 
following  close  at  my  heels,  his  soft  nose  snif 
fing  the  palm  of  my  hand,  the  wet  salty  night 
clearing  my  troubled  brain.  I  weighed  every 
thing  in  the  balance,  all  my  chances  pro  and 
con.  But  before  I  reached  the  heights  of  ob 
jective  wisdom  which  I  am  about  to  reveal  to 
you,  I  had  a  good  tussle  with  the  old  Adam. 

"  Start  for  Rome  to-morrow,"  he  urged. 
"Be  on  the  spot;  snort,  fight,  and  slay."  To 
which  the  man  up  aloft,  with  the  clearer  vis 
ion,  replied,  "To  what  end?  Can  you  even 
then  force  love  ? "  For  what  if  I  go  down 
there  and  follow  you  about  like  a  spaniel  — 
even  if  I  attitudinize  at  church  portals  —  you 
will  not  love  me  the  more  for  it,  Use —  no,  not 
a  whit.  Besides,  I  cannot.  I  'm  not  a  carpet 
knight,  and  I  have  my  work  to  do. 

I  have  known  men  to  marry  with  the  flatter 
ing  hope  that  habit,  familiarity,  and  the  irre 
sistible  charm  of  their  daily  presence  would 
deepen  the  somewhat  lukewarm  affections  of 
their  brides ;  and  I  have  observed  that  such 


A   FELLOWE   AND  HIS  WIFE  49 

experiments  fail  as  often  as  they  succeed, 
from  causes  not  determinable  by  mathemat 
ical  calculations.  For  my  part,  I  cherish  no 
illusions.  You  and  I  do  not  begin  like  two 
strangers  who  meet  at  a  court  ball  in  Berlin 
and  fall  in  love  to  the  rhythm  of  a  Waldteuffel 
waltz.  The  companionship,  the  free  simple 
intercourse  which  either  makes  or  mars  lives, 
you  and  I  have  already  had.  Think  of  the 
hours  on  hours,  the  years  on  years,  we  have 
been  together.  More  than  to  any  other  soul 
have  I  showed  you  my  inner  self.  You  know 
my  ways,  my  weaknesses  and  idiosyncrasies, 
my  silent  moods,  the  things  that  irritate  me, 
the  things  that  give  me  peace.  This  may 
finally  be  in  my  favor,  it  may  handicap  me  in 
the  race,  I  do  not  know  which  ;  but  I  know  it 
is  a  powerful  factor  always  working  for  or 
against  me.  Nothing  can  take  our  past  from 
us  ;  not  Rome,  not  art,  no  devil,  and  no  god. 
In  the  face  of  this  phalanx  of  old  associations, 
I  am  not  so  blatant  a  fool  as  complacently  to 
impute  to  my  personality,  if  but  administered 
in  still  heavier  doses,  some  invincible  magic 


5O  A   FELLOWE  AND  HIS  WIFE 

charm  sufficient  to  totally  transform  a  woman 
of  your  individuality  and  independence,  revo 
lutionize  your  theories  and  creeds,  and  deaden 
your  long-cherished  desires  to  lead  not  only 
an  art-life,  but  your  own  life ;  for  that  too  is 
strong  within  you,  Use,  a  thirst  for  rich  expe 
rience,  for  more  intense  emotion,  for  new, 
strange  things,  for  uncurbed  adventure. 

You  want  your  prancings  and  caracolings ; 
take  them.  You  want  Rome ;  you  have  it. 
Enjoy  them  all,  and  whatever  else  you  crave. 
What  should  I  do  with  an  unwilling  wife  ? 
Marriage  by  capture  is  obsolete,  and  any  com 
pulsion  of  a  woman's  person  or  spirit  brutal 
and  barbarous.  If  my  friend  thinks  Africa 
necessary  to  his  pleasure,  mental  growth,  or 
financial  success,  I  have  no  business  to  try  to 
keep  him  at  home  merely  because  I  enjoy  his 
companionship.  By  what  right  shall  I  then 
say  to  a  woman,  "  Thus  far  and  no  farther." 
Shall  my  passion  constitute  itself  a  law  to 
direct  her  steps  ?  Theoretically,  then,  I  am 
vastly  pleased  with  everything.  Ah,  Use  ! 

Yet  whatever  be  my  pain  and  perplexity, 


A   FELLOWE    AND   HIS  WIFE  51 

believe  me,  —  and  forgive  my  bluntness,  —  I 
do  not  want  you  unless  you  want  me.  That 
is,  I  want  you  with  every  atom  of  my  being, 
and  shall  live  and  die  wanting  you  —  not  alone 
the  sweetness  of  your  presence  and  your 
beauty  which  I  adore,  but  also  your  free  glad 
allegiance,  which  you  cannot  yet  give  me. 

Down  by  the  Jasmund  cliffs  to-night  the 
sea  brought  counsel.  There,  where  you  and 
I,  through  the  years,  have  chatted,  laughed, 
and  sung,  have  had  our  rages  and  reconcilia 
tions,  our  deep-laid  plans  and  conspiracies, 
have  discussed  friends,  books,  ourselves,  our 
dogs  and  horses,  our  theories  of  life  and  the 
beyond,  I  listened  to  the  voices  of  the  past,  of 
the  inexorable  ocean,  and  of  my  own  heart. 
At  length  into  my  unrest  came  quiet,  with 
the  conviction  that  it  is  useless  for  a  man  to 
war  with  fate,  and  that  I  cannot  honestly  act 
otherwise.  The  truth  is,  though  I  Ve  not 
yet  sighted  land  ahead,  I  Ve  cut  adrift  for 
ever  from  the  old  lines. 

I  have  seen  a  man's  unconscious  domi 
nance  completely  extinguish  all  the  light  and 


A   FELLOWE   AND  HIS  WIFE 


gladness  of  a  woman's  nature,  and  this  with 
no  brutal  selfishness,  no  visible  tyranny.  You 
know  as  well  as  I  how  things  were  with  us, 
how  strong  and  upright  my  father  was,  how 
large  and  wholesome  his  views,  how  useful  his 
life,  and  how  from  first  to  last  his  all-pervad 
ing,  all-absorbing,  masterful  personality  to 
tally  submerged  my  mother's  sensitive  spirit. 
I  could  not  help  seeing  it,  for  I  loved  her,  but 
I  should  scarcely  have  got  at  the  heart  of 
things  without  Boris  Subienkow.  Dear  old 
Boris,  you  never  liked  him  much.  He  was  n't 
beautiful,  I  admit,  with  his  Don  Quixote  pro 
file  and  gaunt  body.  He  had  more  brains 
than  lungs,  more  soul  than  muscle,  more 
irony  than  patience,  and  was  altogether  so  out 
of  tune  with  life,  that  death  must  have  been  a 
glad  release  to  him. 

When  he  would  mount  his  hobbies  one 
after  another,  and  charge  furiously  in  every 
direction,  attacking  nearly  all  existing  institu 
tions,  I  used  to  stare  and  chuckle,  and  smoke 
no  end  of  cigarettes,  and  not  understand  very 
well  what  he  was  raving  about,  although  I 


A    FELLOWE   AND  HIS  WIFE  53 

vastly  enjoyed  his  diatribes,  and  thought  him 
the  most  amusing  tutor  in  the  world.  So  far 
as  the  real  burden  of  his  song  went,  I  listened 
somewhat  as  a  child  listens,  mechanically  and 
without  interest,  to  guarded,  veiled  hints  of 
elders  discussing  family  secrets  and  conscious 
of  his  presence.  Yet  somewhere  within  him 
he  involuntarily  stores  it  all  away,  until  years 
after,  one  chance  spark  suddenly  sets  a  thou 
sand  lights  ablaze  along  the  receding  vista 
of  his  past  life,  his  memory  begins  to  search 
forgotten  ways,  and  all  that  has  been  con 
cealed,  every  unsuspected  nook  and  cranny, 
is  revealed. 

What  was  then  remote,  foreign  to  my  nature, 
in  Boris'  views  has  become  in  these  last  years 
near  to  me,  my  own.  What  I  heard  with  the 
incredulous,  good-humored  smile  of  a  comfort 
able  young  puppy  who  has  no  fault  to  find 
with  existing  institutions,  because  they  have 
never  interfered  with  his  pleasures,  confronts 
me  now,  seems  sound,  true,  incontrovertible. 
His  ghost  haunts  me,  in  the  one  way,  I  take 
it,  that  ghosts  haunt  us  all  relentlessly.  On 


54  A   FELLOWE   AND  HIS  WIFE 

the  woman-question  he  was  invincible.  He 
out-Ibsened  Ibsen.  I  was  at  that  stage  of 
existence  when  a  boy's  vague  dream  is  always 
preposterously  sentimental.  A  pretty  little 
ringlet,  a  pretty  little  ear,  a  melting  eye  — 
these  were  the  things  of  paramount  impor 
tance,  ringlet,  ear,  and  eye,  all  quivering,  of 
course,  in  helpless  ecstasy  before  me. 

One  day  he  lured  me  on  to  unwonted  confi 
dences,  cruelly  extracted  from  its  secret  shrine 
in  my  heart  that  foolish,  boyish,  ineffable 
vision,  as  bodiless  as  St.  Cecilia's  floating 
cherubs,  held  it  up  in  the  light  of  pure  reason, 
where  it  made  but  a  sorry  figure,  being  only 
ringlet,  ear,  and  eye,  —  I  had  formulated  no 
thing  beyond  except  the  atmosphere  of  adora 
tion  for  me,  —  jeered  and  derided  her  until 
tears  of  impotent  rage  stood  in  my  eyes,  and  I 
longed  to  choke  him.  But  he  was  merciless. 
He  never  forgot,  never  let  me  forget  her.  At 
unexpected  moments  he  would  conjure  up  that 
spineless,  brainless,  organless,  transcendental 
maid,  and  ridicule  her  and  me  without  quarter. 
I  was  hurt,  angry,  ashamed,  but  doggedly  un- 


A    FELLOWE   AND   HIS  WIFE  55 

convinced,  and  continued  to  secretly  worship 
her.  I  have  worshiped  her  fleeting  prototype 
many  times  since,  when,  in  my  calf-days,  for 
brief  periods  I  romantically  sighed  for  a  legion 
of  girls,  —  one  at  a  time,  of  course ;  I  never 
was  in  any  respect  a  Turk,  —  and  generously 
invested  their  charming  little  silly  pates  with 
halos  and  wings. 

Not  only  did  Boris  mock,  he  would  fre 
quently  wax  stern  as  a  Hebrew  prophet,  and 
denounce  my  ideal  as  an  unholy  thing,  the  root 
of  nameless  evil,  the  mother  of  infinite  lies, 
herself  a  lie  and  an  abomination,  the  product 
of  the  inequality  of  the  sexes  :  she  at  one 
end  of  the  social  scale,  the  household  drudge 
at  the  other  ;  between  them,  every  grade  of 
sweetheart,  from  the  haughty  patrician  beauty 
down  to  the  doll  of  the  harem,  all  sisters 
in  falsehood,  and  direct  results  of  woman's 
bondage  to  man,  and  man's  to  his  senses.  If 
man  should  once  emerge  from  his  dense  bar 
barism,  and  recognize  woman  as  the  comple 
ment  of  his  own  soul,  no  more,  no  less,  he 
could  not  before  marriage  be  a  maudlin  fool, 


56  A   FELLOWE  AND  HIS  WIFE 

and  afterwards  an  egotist  or  a  brute.  Then 
would  come  Boris'  refrain,  "  Free  the  woman 
and  you  free  the  world."  He  had  never  known 
a  marriage  worthy  of  the  name,  never  one  com 
panionship  between  man  and  woman  that  pos 
sessed  as  much  inherent  dignity  as  an  ordinary 
friendship  between  men.  If  apparent  harmony 
prevailed,  it  was  due  to  the  sacrifice  of  self- 
respect,  and  the  habitual  hypocrisy  and  cow 
ardice  of  the  woman.  The  most  liberal  man 
had  one  code  of  honor  for  men,  another  for 
women.  Whatever  his  general  theories,  his 
practice  presupposed  devotion,  submission,  ab 
negation  of  opinions  and  individuality  on  the 
part  of  the  special  woman  allied  with  him, 
whereas  with  his  man  friend  he  easily  left  a 
certain  margin  for  divergence  of  views.  It  was 
all  wrong,  and  it  was  steeped  in  his  heart's 
blood.  No  sane  man  denied  the  tremendous 
empire  of  the  senses.  No  thoughtful  man 
ought  to  deny  the  supremacy  of  the  soul.  He 
was  no  ascetic,  he  had  no  feud  with  nature, 
but  passion  was  a  momentary  exaltation  or 
abasement  according  to  circumstances,  sub- 


A   FELLOWE  AND  HIS  WIFE  57 


limated  on  the  heights,  or  degraded  in  the 
depths,  while  along  the  predominating  level 
plains  of  existence  man  and  woman  should 
walk  together  in  mutual  deference  and  cour 
tesy,  in  trust  and  truth  and  tenderness.  Then 
only  would  life  be  worth  living.  But  men, 
however  polished,  were  savages  still  at  heart. 
Man  had  not  yet  realized  that  woman  was  the 
companion  of  his  highest  endeavor,  not  merely 
his  plaything  in  relaxation,  or  his  slave. 

When  I  ventured,  in  adolescent  remon 
strance,  to  uphold  the  dignity  of  my  sex,  and 
inquired  if  the  woman  could  never  be  the  cause 
of  wretchedness,  Boris  would  thunder,  "No! 
and  if  she  is,  it  is  of  no  consequence.  She  's 
been  a  slave  from  the  beginning.  She  has 
never  had  a  chance  to  be  herself.  Let  her  have 
her  swing.  Never  mind  if  she  swings  too  far. 
Her  future  excesses  can  never  cancel  her  past 
record  of  privations.  Let  her  go  as  far  as  she 
will.  She  will  swing  back  in  due  season,  and 
then  for  the  first  time  will  the  world  find  its 
equilibrium." 

When  he  was  at  a  white  heat   I  could  not 


58  A    FELL  OWE   AND  HIS    WIFE 

answer  him.  He  had  a  certain  fiery  eloquence, 
and  I  was  but  a  crude  youth.  Still  I  clung 
to  my  ringlet.  I  thought  the  realization  of 
his  theories  would  destroy  all  poetry  and  all 
passion. 

As  if  one  could  !  As  if  we  need  fear  that 
more  enlightenment  can  ever  enfeeble  the 
strong  warm  pulsations  of  our  human  hearts. 
As  if  the  great  primeval  force  that  shapes 
planets  out  of  nebulous  matter,  and  animates 
all  realms  of  earth  and  air  and  sea,  and  works 
with  mighty  silent  strength  in  the  growth  of 
the  oak  as  in  the  perfume  of  the  rose,  in  the 
eagle's  flight  and  the  nightingale's  rapturous 
song,  in  the  slumbering  soul  of  the  sea-foam 
as  in  the  loftiest  dream  of  the  human  intellect, 
will  abandon  us,  will  move  us  and  thrill  us  no 
longer  when  we  shall  have  learned  a  little 
more  justice,  pity,  and  some  clearness  of  vision 
towards  ourselves,  towards  our  brothers  and 
our  sisters  alike,  towards  all  classes,  all  races, 
all  humanity. 

Boris  died,  leaving  me  still  unconverted  to 
his  creed.  I  went  my  way,  confident  of  hap- 


A   PEL  LOWE  AND  HIS  WIFE  59 

piness  as  every  healthy  boy  is.  I  plunged  into 
life.  Everything  was  attractive  to  me,  good 
things  and  bad.  I  tried  all  that  came  in  my 
way,  much,  perhaps  chiefly,  through  curiosity. 
I  descended  into  the  Venusberg.  I  did  n't 
stay  long.  I  don't  think  most  men  stay  there 
as  long  as  poor  Tannhauser,  although  the  most 
of  us  want  to  know  from  experience  what  there 
is  down  there.  The  world  was  kind  to  me.  I 
made  my  bow  in  many  salons.  At  first  it  was 
all  delectable,  and  I  was  as  little  inclined  to 
find  fault  as  a  dragon-fly  darting  about  in 
August  sunshine.  But  after  the  first  intoxi 
cation,  I  opened  my  eyes  and  began  to  observe, 
with  a  vague  discontent,  marriage  in  dissolv 
ing  views,  as  it  appears  in  society,  and  all  the 
ponderous  machinery  which  is  set  in  motion 
to  arrive  at  this  debatable  good  :  elderly  cou 
ples  restive  at  heart  under  the  yoke,  but  smirk 
ing  together  in  public  for  motives  of  self- 
aggrandizement  ;  mothers  blandly  offering  their 
daughters  on  the  public  mart ;  everywhere  a 
tacit  agreement  to  be  deaf  and  dumb  and  blind 
to  truth,  to  prophesy  smooth  things  ;  above  all, 


60  A   FELLOWE   AND  HIS  WIFE 

a  diabolical,  widespread  conspiracy  to  prevent 
girls  and  boys  from  having  the  faintest  per 
ception  of  each  other's  characters.  I  began 
to  ask  myself  a  few  simple  questions.  Why 
should  girls  marry,  whether  or  no  ?  Why 
should  society  demand  that  they  be  educated 
for  this  sole  end  and  aim,  and  at  the  same  time 
keep  them  in  dense  ignorance  of  what  mar 
riage  really  means  ?  Is  it  virtue  for  a  girl  to 
be  tossed  into  matrimony  like  a  blind  kitten 
into  a  pond  ?  Is  this  sort  of  thing  conducive 
to  her  happiness,  or  to  that  of  the  man  she 
marries  ? 

Why  should  the  only  preparation  for  a  com 
panionship  of,  say,  thirty  or  forty  years  be  at 
best  a  period  of  glamour,  at  worst  a  system  of 
lies,  hypocrisy,  and  low  and  greedy  motives  ? 
Was  it  not  monstrous  ?  Was  Berlin  in  reality 
much  superior  to  Peking  or  Constantinople  ? 
Why  should  not  a  woman's  moral  dignity  de 
pend  wholly  upon  herself  and  not  upon  any 
masculine  background  whatever,  be  it  father, 
brother,  or  husband  ?  Why  —  but  I  spare 
you.  My  Whys  were  many  and  bitter,  and 


A   FELLOWE  AND  HIS  WIFE  6 1 

my  chaste   ringlet  vanished  forever  from  my 
dreams. 

Some  of  my  comrades  married  young  ;  why, 
I  did  n't  know.  One  never  has  much  sym 
pathy  with  one's  friend's  motives  for  marrying. 
But  I  observed  that  their  disenchantment  was 
not  tardy.  Slightly  more  blasts  than  before, 
they  drifted  back  to  sport  and  the  club,  yet 
they  too  had  languished  for  a  ringlet.  I  re 
member  it  occurred  to  me  one  night  at  the 
theatre  that  Shakespeare's  genius  never  struck 
a  truer  stroke  than  when  he  killed  Romeo  and 
Juliet.  One  shudders,  picturing  into  what  they 
otherwise  would  have  developed,  when,  like 
other  elderly  grumbling  Capulets  and  Mon 
tagues,  they  would  have  ears  neither  for  the 
lark  nor  for  the  nightingale.  It  was  no  doubt 
my  faithful  Boris,  who,  working  still  upon  me 
from  the  shades,  set  me  pondering  upon  these 
things. 

I  had  meanwhile  no  grievous  shock,  but 
various  experiences,  some  of  which  you  know, 
some  you  do  not.  But  before  I  loved  you  no 
thing  was  lasting.  I  began  with  good  reason 


62  A   FELLOWE  AND  HIS  WIFE 

to  doubt  the  stability  of  my  affections.  Per 
haps  it  was  all  my  faulty  nature  could  attain 
to  see  a  face  in  a  crowd,  follow  it,  dream  of  it, 
long  to  follow  and  dream  of  it  forever,  then 
suddenly  forget  it,  seeing  another  of  surpassing 
loveliness.  And  always  Boris'  ghost  haunted 
me,  with  his  slighted,  forgotten  warnings,  his 
fierce  denunciations  of  conventional  lies,  his 
passionate  prayer  for  fearlessness  and  free 
dom  in  marriage  as  between  men  friends,  and 
he  was  right.  In  my  soul  I  know  it.  At  first, 
when  I  loved  you,  I  forgot.  It  is  so  easy  to 
forget ;  so  easy  to  follow  the  old  traditions.  I 
urged  you  unremittingly.  All  men  urge  might 
ily  when  they  want  their  will.  I  urged  too 
much,  I  see  to-night.  I  thought  if  you  bore 
my  name,  all  would  be  well.  Men  are  always 
fools  enough  to  think  that,  but  why  ?  To-night 
I  renounce  such  delusions.  If  I  am  to  be 
wretched,  I  will  establish  my  wretchedness  on 
broader  lines.  We  will  have  truth  between 
us.  If,  by  my  urging,  I  did  you  wrong,  I  will 
make  what  reparation  is  in  my  power.  Use 
Jaromar  shall  in  every  respect  be.  as  free  as 


A   FELLOWE   AND  HIS  WIFE  63 

Use  Ilsenstein.  For  you  do  not  love  me,  Use. 
Sometimes  I  have  been  weak  enough  to  per 
suade  myself  that  you  feel  more  than  the 
simple  old  affection  for  me  ;  but  I  see  clearly 
to-night.  You  trust  me.  In  need  you  would 
turn  to  your  old  comrade,  but  as  to  loving,  you 
are  an  infant  babbling  in  the  dark.  The  legal 
functionary  and  the  Church  have  mumbled  and 
written  something  and  pronounced  us  man  and 
wife.  How  does  that  help  me,  when  I  know 
that  you  remain  in  your  heart  the  little  girl  you 
were  ten  years  ago  ?  For  your  Undine  you 
cannot  have  a  better  model  than  yourself. 
You  too  have  not  yet  found  the  soul,  which  is 
only  born  through  love. 

Queer  irrelevant  phantoms  of  the  past  race 
through  my  head  as  I  write.  It  was  down  by 
the  Jasmund  cliffs,  when  you  were  seven  and 
I  thirteen,  that  I  taught  you  to  swim,  holding 
you  in  my  arms,  and  counting,  "One  —  two," 
for  your  strokes.  I  had  to  smile  in  all  my 
distress  down  there  to-night,  remembering  it, 
and  how  you  wriggled,  and  how  little  you  were, 
and  how  awfully  frightened,  although  you  were 


64  A  FELLOWE  AND  HIS  WIFE 

too  proud,  even  then,  to  confess  it.  When 
you  were  eight,  I  taught  you  to  ride.  All  that 
Malte  showed  me,  his  idol,  you  learned,  and 
you  were  better  at  it  and  cleverer  than  I. 
When  you  were  ten  and  I  sixteen,  I  taught  you 
to  shoot.  And  whatever  a  boy  teaches  his 
brother  I  taught  you,  and  was  prouder  of  you 
than  of  myself  always  ;  and  we  two  for  years 
were  a  stronghold  of  joy,  defying  our  elders 
and  the  world.  We  had  our  bitter  quarrels, 
but  even  in  my  fits  of  sullenness  and  anger  I 
longed  for  the  clasp  of  your  cool,  slender  hand. 
You  went  to  boarding-school  in  Switzerland, 
to  learn  heaven  knows  what.  It  was  there 
you  met  your  Russian  friends  with  their  ad 
vanced  ideas.  I  went  to  Berlin  to  learn  classics 
and  war.  Nothing  made  any  difference.  When 
we  met,  we  took  up  the  old  threads.  We  were 
the  old  chums  Use  and  Odo  again,  wayward, 
honest,  affectionate  brothers. 

Then  came  the  wonder  and  the  change.  I 
loved  you  ;  I  told  you  so.  But  you,  in  spite 
of  your  French,  your  books,  your  music,  your 
art,  and  your  Russian  enlightenment,  remained 


A   FELLOWE  AND  HIS  WIFE  6$ 

Use  the  child  so  far  as  I  was  concerned.  And 
that  is  what  you  are  to-day.  But  I  did  not 
know  it  beyond  the  shadow  of  a  doubt  until 
your  letter  came  with  its  inclosure,  which 
taught  me  wonders  —  mysteries — and  plain 
sailing  for  the  future. 

Use,  dearest,  shall  I  whine  because  your 
nature  is  not  my  own  ?  Shall  I  reproach  you 
because  you  are  yourself  ?  It  is  you  whdm  I 
love,  come  life,  come  death.  If,  as  I  believe, 
you  return  to  me,  I  am  blessed  beyond  all 
men  ;  if  not,  it  is  my  fate.  But  I  have  faith. 
At  least  you  love  no  one  else.  I  trust  the 
past.  The  Ilsensteins  and  Jaromars  were  allies 
through  the  ages.  Never  did  one  betray  the 
other.  The  old  times  are  gone,  the  old  might, 
the  old  violence,  yet  something  remains  of  the 
old  loyalty  ;  and  we  two,  as  we  stand,  are  the 
last  of  the  race.  Yet  this  is  no  reason,  I 
know.  It  shall  be  as  your  heart  wills. 

I  thank  you  for  much  that  is  gracious  and 
sweet  in  your  letter.  I  try  to  follow  you  from 
day  to  day,  and  I  note  your  friends,  pleasures, 
and  experiences,  I  care  for  all  that  you  do, 


66  A   FELL  OWE  AATD  HIS  WIFE 

and  think,  and  see,  and  know.  If  you  should 
need  me  I  would  come  swiftly  ;  otherwise  I 
remain  here  at  my  post,  where  my  duties  hold 
me.  Good-night  !  I  hear  the  fall  of  the 
breakers.  It  may  be  superstition,  it  may  be 
folly,  but  I  believe  that  you  will  come  back  to 
Jaromar,  and,  safe  in  my  arms,  listen  to  the 
surf  and  the  winds  —  content  to  stay,  loving 
our  home  best,  seeking  no  more  problems, 
finding  all  you  need  here,  even  your  art. 

Have  I  not  always  said  your  eyes  contradict 
your  mouth  ?  The  eyes  are  restless,  thought 
ful,  unsatisfied  —  ages  old.  But  the  mouth  is 
fresh,  young,  happy  —  prophetic  of  love,  and 
joy,  and  warmth.  The  mouth  is  my  friend. 
It  is  the  mouth  that  I  trust.  I  stake  every 
thing  on  the  mouth.  And  the  eyes  —  they 
are  sweet  eyes  all  the  same  —  let  them  wan 
der  and  seek.  They  will  grow  tired.  They 
will  come  back.  See,  I  show  my  hand  frankly. 
There  is  nothing  mysterious,  fascinating,  in 
scrutable  in  me,  as  in  your  Roman  friends. 

Here  I  remain,  and  remember,  and  wait,  and 
hope.  ODO. 


VI 

FROM  THE  SAME  TO  THE  SAME. 

Schloss  Jaromar, 

November  7. 

DEAREST  : 

The  boy  Ete,  whom  I  inhumanly  kept  wait 
ing  for  my  letter  last  night,  posted  no  doubt  a 
foolish  kind  of  message,  for  which,  if  it  offends, 
I  crave  your  pardon.  Letters  written  after 
midnight  are  apt  to  be  morose  or  maudlin  ;  and 
mine,  alas,  was  both,  and  biographical  to  boot. 
How  can  a  man  stultify  himself  more  com 
pletely  than  when  he  attempts  to  seize  the 
intangible  —  your  feelings,  my  feelings,  mem 
ories,  impressions,  sympathies  —  and  categori 
cally  label  them  like  apothecaries'  vials  ?  We 
can  make  no  map  of  our  own  hearts  without 
writing  "  unexplored  continent  "  on  the  greater 
portion  of  them.  And  as  for  you,  your  longest 
established  mental  boundary  lines  advance  and 
recede  in  bewildering  fashion.  But  enough  of 


68  A   FELLOWE  AND  HIS  WIFE 

retrospection.  Your  letters,  bright  and  sweet 
as  they  are,  sometimes  strike  deeper,  wilder 
chords  in  me  than  you  suspect ;  and  I  could 
better  master  our  problem  if  it  were  my  neigh 
bor's  case. 

To-day,  by  clear  sunlight  and  a  cheerful 
breeze,  I  hasten  to  send  you  a  sensible  greet 
ing.  I  have  just  returned  from  Ilsenstein. 
All  are  well ;  and  when  I  see  your  father's 
relieved  face,  with  all  the  haggard  lines 
washed  away  as  if  by  enchantment,  I  take 
courage  and  think  I  cannot  have  made  a  mis 
take  in  persuading  you  to  become  Use  Jaro- 
mar.  Don't  think  me  ungenerous  when  I  say 
this.  It  is  not  to  influence  you  an  atom  ;  but 
it  is  the  truth  nevertheless.  He  is  studying 
soils  like  a  Liebig,  and  beginning  every  im 
aginable  kind  of  improvement  at  once.  Your 
mother  is  well,  but  how  you  can  prefer  Rome 
and  art  to  Odo  Jaromar  and  our  island  is  a 
mystery  to  her  —  to  me  too.  That  mincing 
horror,  Charlotte  von  Bodenfels,  was  there. 
She  is  the  only  mortal  who  thus  far  has  dared 
to  question  me  about  you,  but  she  rushes  in 


A   FELLOWE  AND  ffjs  WIFE  69 

where,  as  the  English  poet  says,  angels  fear  to 
tread.  It  is  fair  to  add,  she  does  not  remain 
long.  She  is  promptly  shown  the  door.  "  How 
can  she  go  so  far  from  her  dear  home,  and 
live  only  among  cold  statues  ?  "  she  remarked, 
with  her  ogle  and  infantile  lisp.  "Why 
should  n't  she  go  to  Jericho  and  blow  a  penny 
whistle  if  it  pleases  her  ? "  I  retorted  —  rather 
brutally,  I  admit  —  as  I  lighted  my  cigar  and 
strolled  away  down  the  terrace. 

Dear,  dear  Use,  you  know  without  words  how 
deeply  I  care  for  all  that  you  do,  and  all  that 
you  read  —  your  Shelley  studies,  your  generous 
enthusiasm  in  every  direction  ;  most  of  all  for 
your  delight  in  Roman  fountains,  which  I,  too, 
love.  I  hear  that  rich,  cool,  full  splashing  in 
every  one  of  your  letters.  It  is  the  next  best 
thing  to  our  sea. 

You  are  a  most  brilliant  butterfly,  and  flit  in 
the  sunshine  in  many  directions.  I  may  not 
always  seem  to  follow  you,  yet  I  note  every 
thing.  I  remember,  too,  that  Psyche,  the 
sweet,  loving,  heroic  soul,  floated  like  you  on 
rainbow  butterfly-wings. 


70  A    FELLOWE  AND  HIS  WIFE 

You  ask  about  Margot.  She  is  older  than  I 
thought  at  first,  perhaps  seventeen  or  eighteen, 
and  not  so  very  small  now  that  she  is  on  her 
feet ;  yet  she  suggests  smallness,  having  a  lit 
tle  head  and  a  slight  face. 

She  is  a  dark,  lank  child,  with  a  wide,  if  ex 
pressive  mouth,  and  soft,  pleading  eyes  like  a 
dog  or  a  deer.  I  have  written  to  her  people  in 
France  and  in  Dantzig,  her  father's  home,  as 
yet  with  no  result.  Meanwhile  Walpurga  has 
lost  her  heart  to  the  little  foreign  maid,  and 
begs  me  to  keep  her  here  whatever  comes. 
"  A  bit  of  a  thing  like  that  can't  eat  or  spoil  or 
cost  much,"  my  old  nurse  gravely  assures  me, 
"  and  it 's  good  luck  to  have  something  young 
in  the  old  house  again."  Not  only  Walpurga, 
but  the  entire  household,  is  singularly  inter 
ested  in  the  stranger  and  her  broken  German, 
which  she  learns  with  extraordinary  rapidity, 
and  speaks  with  captivating,  gentle  grace. 
Even  old  Malte's  stout  heart  succumbs.  He 
would  walk  five  miles  to  hear  Margot  say, 
"Thanks,"  and  get  one  of  her  faint  pretty 
smiles.  There  is  something  plaintive  in  the 


A   PEL  LOWE  AND  HIS  WIFE  71 

child.  The  sea  excited  her  at  first  beyond 
control.  But  of  late  she  seems  reconciled 
with  its  solemn  insistence,  and  wanders  down 
to  the  cliffs  often  and  remains  long,  listening 
to  the  waves  and  watching  the  gulls.  Mal- 
zahn  and  Freolin  are  here  to  dine  to-day  ;  some 
other  men  coming  shortly  to  shoot  partridges. 
We  bachelors  shall  hold  high  carnival.  "  In 
thy  orisons  be  all  our  sins  remembered."  I 
kiss  your  clay-tipped  fingers,  and  am, 

Your  faithful, 

ODO. 

I  am  haunted  by  a  vision  of  you  at  the 
piano,  all  those  men  in  evening  dress  stand 
ing  about  and  gloating  over  you,  while  you 
sweetly  inform  them  what  is  the  best  remedy 
for  the  blue-devils.  When  De  Musset  wrote 
your  little  song  he  had  doubtless  been  reading 
his  Horace,  who,  you  remember,  sings  in  his 
own  lovely  way  :  — 

"  Quid  sit  futurum  eras,  fuge  quaerere  ;  et 
Quern  sors  dierum  cumque  dabit,  lucro 
Adpone  :  nee  dulcis  amores 
Sperne  puer,  neque  tu  choreas." 


/2  A   FELLOWE   AND  HIS  WIFE 

But  Horace's  equable  soul  never  took  his 
Glyceras  and  Lydias  very  seriously ;  poor  De 
Musset's  life,  whatever  consolation  he  may 
have  derived  from  la  musiqtie  et  la  beautt  and 
the  making  of  exquisite  verse,  was  a  sad  fiasco  ; 
and  neither  poet,  so  far  as  I  know,  suggests  a 
specific  for  the  melancholy  of  an  every-day  fel 
low  whose  duller  senses  are  not  easily  charmed 
by  passing  delights,  but  whose  soul-grip  is 
most  tenacious  of  what  it  once  has  seized, 
while  all  the  dulcis  amores  for  which  he  cares 
a  straw  the  irony  of  fate  separates  from  him 
by  half  a  continent. 


VII 

FROM   THE   COUNTESS   TO   COUNT  VON   JAROMAR. 

Palazzo  Malaspina, 

November  20. 

OH,  Odo,  how  am  I  to  answer  your  letter ! 
A  hundred  things  to  say  flash  through  my 
mind,  and  I  cannot  utter  one  !  By  turns  you 
draw  me  irresistibly  and  repel  me  —  make  me 
feel  that  the  world  were  well  lost  to  be  with 
you,  and  that  never,  never,  never  can  we  live 
together  in  that  ideal  friendship  of  which  we 
have  both  so  often  spoken.  What  is  it  —  oh, 
what  is  it  ?  why  do  you  make  it  so  difficult  for 
me  ?  for  it  is  you,  you,  Odo,  who  are  causing 
all  this  misunderstanding,  and  not  I.  Oh, 
Odo,  my  dear  friend,  my  best  friend,  there  is 
such  a  pain  at  my  heart !  No  true  woman 
could  read  a  letter  like  yours,  and  not  feel 
proud  of  such  love  and  abased  at  her  own 
unworthiness  of  it.  All  my  life  seemed  to  go 
out  to  you  at  certain  words.  I  am  only  your 


74  A   FELLOWE   AND   HIS  WIFE 

foolish  Use,  and  I  cannot  tell  you  what  I  feel 
in  my  heart.  I  can  only  say  that  though  my 
eyes  are  too  dry  now  after  my  tears,  there  is, 
as  it  were,  something  worse  at  my  heart,  weep 
ing  and  sobbing. 

Odo,  if  your  letter  had  been  in  the  same 
strain  throughout,  I  think  —  I  think  —  I  don't 
know  what  I  think  —  perhaps  I  would  have 
telegraphed  to  you  to  come  to  Rome  ;  perhaps 
I  would  have  left  everything  and  every  one 
here  and  fled  northward  with  but  one  thought 
—  to  reach  Jaromar,  to  be  with 'you,  to  hear 
from  your  lips  what  is  in  your  heart,  to  be 
like  one  of  our  north-sea  fishermen,  after  long 
voyaging,  dumb  from  sheer  gladness  to  be  at 
home  again,  merely  to  sit  still,  in  utter  content, 
realizing  only,  "  I  am  at  home  —  home  at  last." 

But  then  —  but  then  —  you  say  words  which 
chill  me  inexpressibly.  I  can  hardly  explain, 
I  fear.  You  will  think  me  foolishly  sensitive, 
reading  into  your  words  what  is  not  there. 
But  something  in  me  resents  something  in 
you.  There,  I  have  said  it.  Is  it  too  harsh 
and  crude  ?  Do  not  mistake  me,  my  friend  ; 


A   FELLOWE  AND  HIS  WIFE  75 

I  do  not  mean  that  there  is  something  between 
us  that  must  of  necessity  keep  us  apart  —  that 
there  is  anything  to  justify  your  assertion,  so 
emphatically  and  confidently  made,  that  I  do 
not  love  you.  But,  with  all  your  courteous, 
nay,  your  chivalrous  regard  for  me  and  my 
position,  you  unconsciously  write,  now  and 
then,  in  a  tone  that  I  deeply  resent.  When 
you  allude  to  my  passionate  desire  for  inde 
pendence,  for  free  scope  for  my  art-life,  for 
individual  development,  you  are  generally  the 
Odo  Jaromar  whom  I  have  known  so  long,  my 
dearest  comrade,  my  best  friend.  But  when 
you  write  to  your  "  unwilling  wife  "  —they  are 
your  words,  not  mine  —  and,  in  lordly  fashion, 
say,  "  You  want  your  prancings  and  caracol- 
ings,  take  them,"  then  you  are  no  longer  that 
comrade  whom  I  love,  but  Odo  von  Jaromar 
whom  I  have  married,  and  who  looks  upon  Use 
Jaromar  as  a  very  different  person  from  Use 
Ilsenstein.  Think  of  it,  Odo,  before  you  call 
me  petulant  or  unreasoning.  I  am  a  woman,  a 
proud  woman,  and,  far  short  of  my  most  mod 
erate  ideal  of  an  artist  as  I  am,  I  am  yet  suffi- 


76  A   FELLOWE  AND   HIS  WIFE 

ciently  the  artist  to  know  that  I  have  that 
earnest  passion,  as  well  as  something  of  the 
power,  to  create,  to  work  with  heart,  and  soul, 
and  brain,  and  hand,  and  every  fibre  of  one's 
being.  True,  I  wanted  to  come  to  Rome,  but 
it  was  no  whim  that  prompted  me,  no  foolish 
caprice.  I  came  to  find  myself  artistically ;  I 
came  to  learn  how  to  do  the  best  that  nature 
has  put  into  my  power  to  do.  And  then  — 
then,  you  write,  "  You  want  your  prancings 
and  caracolings,  take  them."  Merci,  mon 
prince !  How  generous !  My  dreams,  my 
hopes,  my  aspirations,  my  studies,  my  glad 
toil,  my  renunciations  even  (for  I  have  re 
nounced,  to  serve  my  end,  though  you  do  not 
understand),  are  "  prancings  and  caracolings." 
Moreover,  I  am  not  here  to  prance  and  cara 
cole  by  my  own  right  and  will,  not  even  by  the 
disposition  of  Son  Altesse  le  Bon  Dieu,to  quote 
your  friend  Boris  ;  but  because  my  excellent 
and  amiable  sposo  autocratically  says,  "  Irre 
sponsible  creature,  as  it  is  your  nature  to 
prance  and  caracole,  you  may  !  " 

You  see  that  you  have   angered  me.     Yet 


A   FELLOWE   AND  HIS  WIFE  77 

displeasure  is  a  little  thing.  But  one  short 
phrase  in  your  letter  gave  me  a  chill,  not  of 
momentary  resentment  merely,  but  of  dread. 
Dread,  Odo,  of  you,  of  myself,  of  ourselves,  of 
this  marriage-bond  with  which  we  have  linked 
ourselves  one  to  the  other.  If  you  can  tell  me 
that  the  phrase  —  a  trivial  little  thing,  you 
may  think,  to  take  so  seriously  —  was  a  mere 
slip,  a  second's  unconscious  irritation,  I  will 
gladly  forget  it.  But  otherwise  —  well  —  here 
are  the  words.  You  say,  "  What  if  I  go  to 
Rome  and  follow  you  about  like  a  spaniel,"  and 
then  you  add,  "  even  if  I  should  attitudinize  at 
church  portals"  When  you  said  that,  you  in 
sulted  me,  and  you  insulted  my  friend.  Fried- 
rich  Herwegh  may  have  his  faults,  but  I  do 
not  believe  he  would  say  any  such  thing  of 
you,  were  he  to  know  you  and  have  any  real 
or  imaginary  cause  of  dislike. 

Ah,  I  have  half  forgiven  you  !  Perhaps 
more  than  half,  you  undeserving  fellow !  I 
was  not  going  to  read  your  letter  again.  I  was 
going  to  forget  everything  in  it  that  touched 
me  to  deep  affection  and  admiration.  I  was 


78  A   FELLOWE  AND  HIS  WIFE 

going  to  be  —  ah,  you  cannot  imagine  what  a 
haughty  and  unbending  and  altogether  objec 
tionable  Use,  when  suddenly  down  came  a  great 
tress  of  hair,  and  made  that  smear  at  the  cor 
ner  over  my  malicious  last  sentence  ;  and  with 
it  fell  that  amber  pin  you  gave  me  a  year  ago. 
You  know  the  one  I  mean  ?  The  small  round 
ball,  as  transparent  as  yellow  wine,  and  with 
the  tiny  little  fly  preserved  in  it  from  time  im 
memorial.  You  found  the  piece  yourself,  after 
a  wild  storm  along  our  Riigen  coasts,  and  had 
it  made  into  a  hair-pin  for  me.  It  was  almost 
our  first  quarrel  in  a  whole  month — and  what 
a  delightful  one  it  was  !  I  wanted  you  to  have 
it  as  a  neckerchief-pin  ;  you  insisted  it  was  to 
replace  the  beautiful  ivory  one  I  lost  that  day 
I  fell  among  the  bracken,  after  insisting  upon 
looking  at  the  hawk's  nest  you  had  discovered. 
Ah,  what  a  fright  I  got  when  that  fierce-eyed 
falcon  almost  dashed  into  my  face  ;  and  how  in 
the  most  undignified  fashion  I  fell  back,  stum 
bled,  and  disappeared  into  a  deep  sea  of  fern  ; 
and  how  angry  I  was  with  you  for  laughing  so 
uncontrollably,  till  I  could  n't  help  joining, 


A   FELLOWE   AND  HIS  WIFE  79 

with  the  result  that  all  the  hawks  in  the  neigh 
borhood  must  have  been  frightened  out  of  their 
wits. 

And  so  that  little  amber  pin  —  I  have  kissed 
it,  and  put  it  in  my  hair  again  —  made  me 
think  of  many  things  ;  and  I  am  quite  sure 
that  you  are  the  best  and  kindest  and  noblest 
of  all  the  Jaromars  that  ever  lived,  and  that  I 
am  the  most  forgiving  and  delightful  and  lov 
able  and  deserving  of  all  the  Ilsensteins. 

But  I  am  not  all  smiles,  though  the  frowns 
have  flown.  Your  letter  has  made  me  ponder 
deeply.  I  am  glad  that  we  are  so  much  at 
one. 

Your  affectionate 

ILSE. 


VIII 

FROM  THE  SAME  TO  THE  SAME. 

Palazzo  Malaspina, 

November  21 '. 

MY  DEAR  ODO  : 

Since  writing  to  you  yesterday  I  have  read 
your  letter  again  and  again.  It  is  in  the  main 
a  noble  and  true  letter  and  like  yourself  — 
and  yet ! 

Well,  I  am  convinced  that  malignant  sprites 
sometimes  creep  into  one's  letters,  and  weave 
such  a  spell  about  the  simplest  expressions 
that  all  kinds  of  horrid  things  are  the  result, 
and  I  am  sure  that  an  extra-large,  an  extra- 
malignant,  and  a  horribly  industrious  sprite 
must  have  found  its  way  into  yours ! 

Something  —  I  can't  define  it  —  keeps  haunt 
ing,  haunting  me  !  I  wish  I  could  shake  it 
off.  I  am  so  touched,  so  deeply  touched  by 
all  you  say.  And,  Odo,  I  do  care  for  you, 
surely  you  cannot  really  doubt  this.  I  know 


A   FELLOWE  AND  HIS  WIFE  8 1 

how  true  is  my  affection  and  esteem  for  you  ! 
But  really,  if  — 

Now  I  was  going  to  say  something  that 
would  anger  you,  my  friend,  but  see  —  I  have 
not !  Instead,  some  foolish  tears  suddenly 
came  into  my  eyes,  and  one  little  traitor  has 
fallen  upon  my  paper  and  made  a  great  ugly, 
well-meaning  "full  stop  "  after  "if." 

Ah,  those  ifs  !  There  was  once  a  beautiful 
princess,  and  she  was  called  If  ;  and  she  lived 
in  a  lovely  castle  that  was  called  If ;  and  it  was 
the  most  delightful  place  in  all  the  world. 
And  men  came  from  all  parts  to  that  dear  land 
beyond  the  Rainbow,  of  which  If  is  the  capital, 
and  every  one  wooed  the  charming  princess  If, 
and  begged  her  to  give  him  at  least  one  word 
of  comfort :  and  to  each  and  all  this  good 
Genius — for  that  is  what  she  was — gave  a 
magic  word  wrapped  in  a  little  veil  of  golden 
mist ;  so  that  every  one  went  back  into  his 
own  place  well  content.  She  gave  it  to  the 
poor  and  the  rich,  to  the  fortunate  and  the 
unfortunate,  to  the  noble-minded  and  the 
mean-natured,  to  the  good  and  the  bad  ;  and 


82  A   FELLOWE  AND  HIS  WIFE 

each  rejoiced  in  that  little  word,  for  it  was  the 
very  image  of  the  beautiful  princess,  and  it  ut 
tered  If  in  the  most  bewilderingly  satisfying 
way.  The  poor  man  knew  what  he  would  do  ; 
the  rich  man  went  to  the  springs  of  health 
with  it ;  the  fortunate  and  the  good  kissed  it 
but  flung  it  away,  sometimes  rashly  and  some 
times  only  at  the  Gates  of  Heaven  ;  and  the 
unfortunate  and  the  evil  held  it  up  as  a  charm 
against  the  avenging  Sword,  and  even  thought 
to  stay  fate  with  its  redeeming  grace,  and  .  .  . 
Oh,  Odo,  Odo,  I  cannot  write  any  more,  I  am 
so  miserable  !  Yes,  yes,  I  will  write  ;  see,  I 
have  controlled  my  foolish  self  again.  But, 
alas,  how  easy  it  would  be  to  give  another  ver 
sion  to  my  If  story  !  It  is  a  poor  wretched 
little  elf  without  a  soul,  but  with  a  smile  on  its 
lips  and  mockery  in  its  voice. 

But,  Odo,  you  will  have  guessed  something 
of  what  is  in  my  mind.  You  cannot  have  for 
gotten  how,  when  you  said,  "  If  my  Use  is 
the  woman  I  take  her  for,  she  will  come  back 
to  Jaromar,"  I  answered,  "  But  if  your  Use  is 
not  the  woman  you  take  her  for,  what  then  ?  " 


A   FELLOWE   AND  HIS  WIFE  83 

And  again,  Odo,  you  must  remember  how,  the 
day  before  we  were  married,  I  drew  you  out  of 
hearing  of  my  father,  and  said  to  you  in  all 
seriousness,  "If  this  thing  that  is  to  be  be 
tween  us,  this  bond  of  honor,  prove  a  delusion, 
you  must  blame  yourself  as  well  as  me.  For 
I  have  warned  you."  And  when  you  were 
about  to  interrupt  eagerly,  I  added,  "  I  do  not 
know  myself  after  all.  I  thought  I  did.  I 
must  go  to  this  far-off  Rome.  But  what  if  I 
'  find  myself '  there,  what  if  I  know  that  Jaro- 
mar  can  never,  never  be  to  me  "  — and  then, 
alas,  I  chanced  to  look  at  my  father,  and  in 
the  afternoon  glow  I  saw  that  the  seams  in  his 
long  black  coat  were  almost  as  white  as  the 
hair  that  now  falls  about  that  dear  worn  face. 
I  could  not  say  another  word  ;  but,  Odo,  I  must 
tell  you  now  that  when  you  clasped  me  in  your 
arms  and  kissed  me  on  the  brow,  I  heard  that 
miserable,  miserable  little  word  whirling  in  my 
ears  ;  and  all  the  next  morning  even,  when  the 
bells  were  ringing  so  blithely,  their  tune  was 
a  jangled  one  for  me,  because  it  was  all  if — 
if -if- 


84  A   FELLOWE  AND  HIS  WIFE 

Shall  I  whisper  something  into  your  ear  ? 
Odo,  dear,  I  have  forgotten  all  the  sadness  and 
bitterness  in  your  last  letter  ;  I  have  kissed 
it  away  !  and  I  have  forgotten  all  my  stupid 
ifs,  and  know  only  and  care  only  to  know  that 
I  am  Use  Ilsenstein,  your  old  playmate  and 
sweetheart;  and  that  I  love  you,  Odo  —  yes, 
that  I  love  you. 

But,  my  dear  husband, —  see,  I  say  it  gladly 
and  freely, —  if  I  have  not  drifted  away  from 
you,  neither  do  I  yet  see  the  road  that  leads 
back  to  Jaromar.  Surely,  our  love  can  wait. 
What  is  it  in  this  thing  "love"  that  is  so 
impatient  ?  Why  does  it  vex  itself  so  ?  If  I 
were  in  love  —  nay,  forgive  the  phrase,  dear ; 
I  was  speaking,  as  it  were,  as  a  spectator ;  you 
understand  me  ?  —  I  should  think  a  calm,  un 
questioning  patience  the  finest  attitude  for 
either  man  or  woman. 

Oh,  dear  me  !  I  had  so  much  I  wanted  to 
say  to  you,  but  there  is  that  tiresome  bell.  I 
know  it  is  some  one  coming  to  see  me.  Who 
can  it  be  ?  Do  you  ever  catch  yourself  won 
dering  idly  thus  ?  And  do  you  know  at  what  I 


A   FELLOWE  AND  HIS  WIFE  85 


am  wondering  most  just  now  ?  I  will  not  tell 
you,  for  you  would  laugh  at  me.  But  I  have 
coiled  my  hair  in  the  way  that  old  nameless 
sculptor  did  it  in  his  Woman  of  Athens,  and 
—  but  no  more  !  I  hear  him,  or  her,  coming. 
Addio,  dear  Odo. 

ILSE. 


IX 

FROM   THE   COUNTESS   TO   COUNT   VON    JAROMAR. 

Palazzo  Malaspina. 

Is  it  only  an  hour  or  so  since  I  wrote  to  you, 
my  dear  Odo  ?  It  was  with  a  start  I  realized 
this  when  I  sat  down  at  my  little  desk.  It 
has  your  photograph  upon  it,  in  that  old  Dan 
ish-silver  frame  you  brought;  me  one  day  from 
Copenhagen,  and  a  little  cluster  of  what  the 
Romans  call  St.  Agnes'  roses,  they  are  so  ten 
derly  pink  and  white,  heaped  about  it.  My 
letter  to  you  has  gone  —  is  indeed  already  lost 
among  thousands  of  others,  not  half  as  charm 
ing  and  lovable  and  forgiving  little  notes,  in 
that  great  whirlpool  of  correspondence  in 
S.  Silvestro  in  Capito,  and  so  I  cannot  add  a 
postscript  to  it :  but,  like  a  good  and  amiable 
Use,  sit  down  afresh,  pen  in  hand. 

But —  whirlpool !  How  that  word  has  sud 
denly  sprung  up  like  a  will-o'-the-wisp,  and 
dances  before  me  till  my  mind  is  full  of  you 


A   FELLOWE   AND  HIS  WIFE  8/ 

and  far-off  Riigen  instead  of  my  late  visitor. 
Ah,  how  well  I  remember  you,  when  the  spring 
tides  were  at  the  flood,  and  that  whirlpool  off 
the  Black  Rock  —  the  Kelpie  of  Riigen,  as  the 
Thiessow  fishermen  call  it  —  was  surging  hor 
ribly,  like  atom  cobra  writhing  in  death  throes, 
and  how,  when  Peter  Helder's  boat  was  drawn 
closer  and  closer,  with  his  little  son  in  it,  his 
only  child,  you  dashed  out  in  a  sm,all  skiff,  and 
by  almost  a  miracle  snatched  the  child  from 
the  heavy  boat  and  managed  to  whirl  round 
and  round,  but  always  edging  further  and  fur 
ther  away  from  that  sickening,  foam-clotted 
spot  The  men  cheered  you,  Odo,  and  Peter 
Helder  kissed  your  hands  and  sobbed  with  ex 
citement,  but  not  one  of  them  knew  as  well 
as  I  did  what  a  hero  you  were.  And  I  know 
what  it  was  that  made  you  so  ghastly  white, 
even  after,  by  your  strong  arm  and  dauntless 
nerve,  you  had  won  back  little  Jan's  and  your 
own  life.  It  was  not  fear  of  death,  but  fear  of 
losing  me  forever  and  ever.  It  was  then,  you 
told  me  long  afterward,  that  you  first  knew 
what  dumb  longing  was  tearing  at  your  heart. 


88  A   FELLOWE  AND  HIS  WIPE 

Ah  !  is  there  in  all  this  Italy  a  stronger, 
braver,  or  truer  man  than  Odo  von  Jaromar  ? 

And  now,  my  friend,  to  my  letter.  Will-o'- 
the-wisp,  adieu !  I  am  in  Rome  again,  and 
instead  of  watching  you  striving  with  the 
whirlpool,  I  am  looking  at  my  unfinished  Un 
dine,  and  my  freshly  modeled  Emilia,  and  a 
firm  little  ivory-paper  calling -card  with  the 
words,  La  Contessa  Lucrezia  Mallerini,  Casa 
Barolo,  Villa  Ludovisi. 

I  wonder  what  she  is.  I  mean  in  herself. 
I  have  read,  or  heard,  that  a  woman  of  the 
north  can  no  more  understand  a  woman  of  the 
south  than  a  white  swan  can  understand  a 
black  jaguar.  Who  said  it,  I  wonder  ?  I  used 
to  laugh  at  it  as  so  stupid.  But  perhaps  there 
is  something  in  it.  Contessa  Mallerini  has 
been  so  communicative  and  so  winsome  (for 
her),  and  yet  I  am  no  whit  the  wiser,  and  do 
not  believe  that  I  am  even  on  the  right  track 
at  all. 

You  have  not  forgotten  my  telling  you  about 
her,  have  you  ?  I  met  her  and  her  sombre 
husband  Cesare  recently  at  dinner,  you  re 
collect  ? 


A   FELLOWE  AND  HIS  WIFE  89 


I  had  no  idea  till  she  came  in  that  I  had  so 
identified  my  Emilia  Viviani  with  her.  It  was 
startling;  so  much  so,  that  as  soon  as  I  de 
cently  could  I  leant  across  my  little  table  so 
as  to  shove  up  the  swing  lamp,  and  then 
dropped  a  loose  pink  silk  scarf,  which  I  was 
wearing,  over  the  model.  But  either  it  caught 
or  my  visitor  thought  or  pretended  it  did,  for 
in  a  moment  she  stooped,  delicately  snatched 
the  scarf  away,  and  with  some  gracious  words 
protested  her  anxiety  for  my  handiwork.  But 
in  a  second  she  recognized  the  likeness.  I 
saw  her  dark,  lustreless  eyes  flash  for  a  mo 
ment.  I  think  she  was  about  to  speak  of  it 
at  once,  but  she  did  not.  We  had  a  pleasant 
conversation,  of  a  kind.  She  told  me  that  she 
too  is  an  artist.  "  Not  a  professional  one,  of 
course,"  she  added,  and  I  did  not  at  all  like 
the  way  she  said  it.  For  myself,  I  can  quite 
believe  that  these  southern  Italians  never  can 
understand  northern  women.  She  paints  a 
little.  So  far  as  I  can  gather,  music  is  her 
forte.  I  could  not  but  feel  annoyed  at  this, 
for  the  other  night,  when  I  sang  my  little 


90  A   PEL  LOWE  AND  HIS  WIFE 

De  Musset  song,  she  refused  to  sing.  I  won 
der  if  she  too  is  a  contralto.  Well,  we  chatted 
away.  I  offered  her  coffee,  and  she  seemed 
pleased  ;  though,  for  myself,  I  was  already 
disquieted  by  her  presence,  and  would  have 
been  glad  to  bow  gracefully,  and  say,  "  A  rive- 
derla."  Suddenly  she  began  to  question  me 
about  the  technique  of  my  work.  How  did  I 
like  carving  in  ivory  ?  Does  not  the  cost  of 
the  material  make  any  real  profit  impossible  ? 
That  it  is  sculpture  de  hixe>  is  it  not  ?  That 
I  must  be  lonely,  so  far  away  from  my  hus 
band  ?  And  so  on.  But  all  the  time  her  eyes 
were  wandering,  wandering.  "Yes,"  I  replied, 
vaguely  surprised  at  her  interest.  "  I  began 
that  study  of  Emilia  on  such  and  such  a  day." 
"  That  was  before  we  met,"  she  said,  quietly. 
Then  I  knew  what  she  meant.  "  It  is  an  ideal 
study,"  I  added,  hurriedly  ;  "  a  whim.  I 
thought  I  would  make  an  Emilia  Viviani. 
Emilia  Viviani  was  the  woman  whom  the  Eng 
lish  poet  Shelley  loved,  and"  —"And  about 
whom  you  heard  from  Friedrich  Herwegh," 
she  interrupted,  with,  I  think,  the  worst  possi- 


A   FELLOWE  AND  HIS  WIFE  91 

ble  taste.  "  You  know  Signor  Herwegh  well  ? " 
I  asked.  "  I  know  Signor  Herwegh  well," 
was  the  reply,  in  a  mechanical  voice;  "and 
I  also  know  all  about  the  Epipsychidion" 
What  a  strange  woman  she  is.  She  lifted  her 
head,  and  looked  at  me.  For  the  first  time  I 
noticed  she  had  two  shadowy  little  wrinkles 
along  her  under-eyelids.  I  had  fancied  her 
not  more  than  three  or  four  and  twenty  ;  she 
may  be  five  years  older.  The  heavy  Abruzzi 
lace  she  wore  round  her  neck  does  not  suit 
her  so  well  as  she  thinks  it  does  ;  personally 
I  cannot  understand  how  she  can  wear  it.  It 
is  peasant's  lace,  you  know,  coarse  in  texture 
and  workmanship.  "  You  are  looking  at  my 
lace,  I  see  ;  I  often  wear  this  Abruzzi  stuff ; 
it  is  to  please  my  husband.  He  is  feudal 
seignor  of  a  district  up  in  the  Abruzzi,  beyond 
Solmona."  Now,  I  am  perfectly  sure  that  is 
not  her  reason  at  all.  "  Why,  in  heaven's  name, 
should  she  say  so,  then  ?  "  you  will  exclaim  ; 
but  that  I  cannot  tell  you.  She  was  taking 
her  leave  at  last,  when  she  caught  sight  of  my 
little  ivory  medallion  of  you.  "  And  this  :  is 


92  A   FELLOWE   AND  HIS  WIFE 

it  your  husband  ? "  She  looked  at  it  so  long 
and  scrutinizingly  —  or  at  it  and  the  pho 
tograph  together  I  should  say,  for  she  had 
taken  up  the  latter  —  that  I  began  to  feel  quite 
jealous.  Altogether  a  most  enigmatic  young 
woman.  She  said  several  things  that  puzzled 
me.  By  the  way,  I  spoke  of  jealousy  just 
now.  She  asked  me,  looking  at  the  portrait, 
if  you  were  of  a  jealous  nature.  "  Certainly 
not,"  I  answered.  I  have  promised  to  call  on 
her  soon  ;  and  she  is  to  come  here  again  ere 
long  with  her  husband. 

Later. 

I  had  written  thus  far  when  Ulrich  Heide- 
loff  and  Herwegh  called.  He  (F.  H.)  is  a 
strange  man.  The  other  night  he  was  affa 
bility  itself  when  I  asked  him  about  the  Malle- 
rinis.  A  little  while  ago  he  seemed  as  chill 
as  an  iceberg  when  I  questioned  him  about 
Signora  Lucrezia.  He  was  surprised,  and  ap 
parently  not  pleasurably,  to  learn  that  she  had 
paid  me  a  long  call,  and  he  was  rather  rude. 
Every  now  and  again  there  is  something  about 
Friedrich  Herwegh  that  perplexes  —  indeed, 


A    FELLOWS  AND  HIS  WIFE  93 

even  annoys  —  me.  He  is  far  more  a  south 
erner  than  a  northerner.  He  professes  the 
most  ideal  respect  for  women,  and  yet  I  have 
heard  him  again  and  again  speak  of  them,  in 
dividually,  in  a  way  that  sent  a  little  jar  along 
my  nerves.  I  fancy  he  does  not  at  all  care  for 
my  Contessa,  and  yet  he  says  he  admires  her 
greatly.  u  She  is  a  woman  who  must  have 
had  many  lovers,"  I  remarked  questioningly. 
It  was  then  that  he  said  one  of  those  little 
things  I  do  not  like  in  him  :  "  How  cruel 
women  are  with  that  poisoned  arrow,  the  past 
tense ! "  I  felt  indignant,  for  I  never  for  a 
moment  wished  to  imply  that  I  think  the  Con 
tessa  Mallerini  in  any  degree  passfa.  But 
like  your  silly  Use,  I  flushed,  and  then  I  saw 
that  Herwegh  was  smiling  maliciously.  It  is 
a  pity  that  so  fine  a  man  should  stoop  to  such 
little  things. 

Midnight. 

Am  I  never  to  be  left  alone  to  finish  a  let 
ter  ?  I  had  just  written  the  above  when  Lilien 
Rohrich  came  in  "to  keep  me  company." 
But,  oh,  dear  me,  I  am  tired  of  people. 


94  A   FELLOWE  AND  HIS  WIFE 

There  was  a  man  outside  calling  "  Limone  — 
limone  freschi!"  with  the  most  wearisome 
reiteration.  At  last,  I  could  stand  it  no 
longer,  and  so  I  availed  myself  of  Frau  Roh- 
rich's  suggestion,  and  went  with  her  to  her 
rooms.  She  talked  much  to  me  about  certain 
acquaintances  we  have  in  common.  I  see 
that  she  does  not  like  the  Mallerinis,  and  that 
she  has  something  amounting  to  a  fear  of 
Madame  Lucrezia.  She  spoke  most  warmly 
of  Herwegh.  I  have  done  him  injustice. 
She  says  his  persiflage  means  nothing.  She 
told  me  some  things  about  him  which  con 
vince  me  that  he  is  as  admirable  a  man  as 
he  is  artist.  He  has  few  real  friends.  Only 
women  understand  him.  Yes,  he  is  a  fine  fel 
low.  To-morrow  night  I  have  promised  to  go 
to  the  Rohrichs  to  dinner.  They  are  to  have 
a  score  of  friends.  I  am  so  tired  !  Good 
night.  ILSE. 


I**? 

Er 


X 

FROM   THE  COUNT   TO  THE   COUNTESS  VON  JAROMAR. 

Schloss  Jaromar, 

November  26. 

You  do  not  like  my  letter?  So  much  the 
worse  for  me.  I  wish  you  liked  it  better  than 
ivoire  vert.  But  what  can  I  do  ?  The  soul 
of  me  had  to  write  it.  At  least,  I  thought 
so  that  night.  The  moment  it  was  gone,  re 
morse  set  in.  I  became  suddenly  aware  that 
it  was  not  an  eminently  suave  and  cheerful 
communication,  and  tried  to  intimate  this, 
with  a  quasi  apology,  the  following  day.  Now, 
upon  sober  second  thought,  having  let  a  little 
"  grass  grow  "  since,  and  succumbing  to  the 
soothing  and  conciliatory  influences  of  three 
delicious  letters  from  you,  which  are  lying 
open  here  before  my  eyes,  —  three  dainty, 
vaguely  fragrant,  charmingly  contradictory 
letters,  differing  one  from  another,  as  if  writ 
ten  by  three  different  women,  —  I  conclude  to 


96  A   FELLOWE  AND  HIS  WIFE 

retract  —  nothing.  I  hold  my  ground,  and 
even  if  I  am  wrong,  I  am  going  to  stand 
fast.  It  affords  me  grim  satisfaction  to  realize 
that  my  ill-natured  prejudices,  if  such  they  be, 
are  at  any  rate  stable.  You  can  "build  upon" 
them,  which  is  more  than  can  be  said  for  your 
Roman  phantasmagories  ;  and  in  our  unequal 
conflict,  this  is  surely  well.  For  whatever 
comes,  one  of  us  must  always  know  where  to 
find  the  other.  Now  it  is  obviously  out  of  the 
question  for  me  to  hope  to  find  you,  my  bril 
liant,  flitting,  erratic,  elusive,  sweetest  lichen, 
never  of  one  mood  three  consecutive  seconds, 
and  as  I  cannot  emulate  your  bewildering 
changes  of  base,  I  choose  to  adopt  diametri 
cally  opposite  methods.  I  will  be  the  rugged 
landmark  which  my  lovely  nomad  may  seek 
when  she  is  weary  of  roaming. 

Are  you  frowning  ?  Dearest,  dearest,  do 
you  suppose  that  I  really  want  to  offend  you  ? 
Yet,  better  a  thousand  times  your  displeasure 
than  your  indifference.  Indifference  in  love 
is  death.  For  this  reason  your  resentment, 
your  heat  and  childlike  reproaches,  have 


A   FELLOWE  AND  HIS  WIFE  97 

thrown  me  into  higher  spirits  than  I  have 
known  since  you  left.  Such  is  the  unregener- 
ate  nature  of  man. 

To  return  to  the  fateful  letter.  As  to  its 
principles,  I  repeat,  I  don't  budge  an  inch. 
I  'm  as  dogged  as  Martin  Luther.  But  I  de 
plore  the  inordinate  length  of  my  harangue. 
It  is  no  doubt  a  man's  duty  to  make  himself 
odious  now  and  then.  Still  he  can  be  odious 
with  a  semblance  of  tact  and  delicacy  ;  he 
need  not  be  odious  on  a  colossal  scale.  Why 
should  he  write  a  letter  like  unto  the  stupefy 
ing,  interminable  rush  of  a  waterfall  ?  But 
however  imperfect  the  form,  I  cannot  retract 
the  import,  nor  would  you  in  your  secret  heart 
have  me.  For  see,  Use,  with  superb,  reckless, 
womanlike  inconsequence,  you  ignore  every 
thing  that  it  does  not  please  you  to  consider. 
I  do  not  say  a  woman  cannot  be  logical,  —  that 
is  a  too  stupid  assumption,  —  but  she  rarely 
possesses  a  sense  of  logical  integrity.  She  is 
lawless,  and  at  her  own  sweet  will  makes  her 
obeisance  to  reason  or  flies  at  his  approach. 
So  you  ignore  your  own  letter,  to  which  mine 


98  A   FELLOWE  AND  HIS  WIFE 

was  but  the  direct  response.  You  ignore  all 
things  that  madden  a  man.  You  create  the 
world  afresh  each  morning,  and  smilingly  de 
clare  that  it  is  good.  You  place  me  in  an  un 
paralleled  situation,  from  which  St.  Anthony 
could  scarcely  have  extricated  himself  with 
dignity,  and  are  then  quite  aggrieved  when  I, 
an  unholy  man,  roar  with  exasperation. 

Bless  her  dear  little  heart !  Did  one  of  her 
wound-up  dolls  refuse  to  say  "  Mamma "  and 
"  Papa,"  when  she  squeezed  it  ?  Never  mind. 
It  was  only  a  rough  rustic  Riigen  doll.  Make 
the  pretty  Roman  puppets  dance  the  more  for 
it.  It  is  their  wittier.  Their  machinery  is 
well  oiled,  and  they  can  smirk  and  open  and 
shut  their  eyes  in  a  most  seductive  manner. 
Oh,  Use,  I  too  can  tell  a  tale  of  an  If.  It  is, 
according  to  Prosper  Merimee,  the  story  of 
Roland's  horse.  He  was  .the  most  splendid 
animal  in  the  world,  and  he  could  have  run 
faster  than  the  wind  —  if — he  had  not  been 
dead. 

Dear  sunny  Use,  I  am  bad  to-day.  I  am 
reckoning  on  your  unfathomable  sweetness  of 


A   PEL  LOWE  AND  HIS  WIFE  99 

temper,  without  which  I  were  a  lost  soul. 
Your  three  iridescent  letters  are  shining  here 
at  me.  Two  of  them  are  as  blissful  as  if  hu 
man  nature  had  no  abysses.  In  one,  your 
first  impulse  is  to  resent,  but  your  second  — 
praise  be  to  the  nine  gods  of  Rome !  —  is  to 
forgive  the  sinner  whose  rhetoric  was  not  to 
your  taste.  Be  comforted,  lichen,  it  is  never 
to  my  own.  That  words  are  a  means  to  con 
ceal  thoughts  is  often  a  beneficent  dispensa 
tion  ;  for  instance,  when  one  has  to  talk  with 
Charlotte  von  Bodenfels ;  but  that  the  rascals 
contradict  and  travesty  our  best  sentiments, 
invest  them  with  foreign  shapes,  meanings, 
and  colors,  mock  and  betray  them  —  this  is,  in 
truth,  a  grievous  matter.  For  such  transgres 
sions,  I  humbly  implore  your  pardon.  Draw 
a  great  broad  magnanimous  line  through  all 
the  obnoxious  phrases  (except  "attitudinizing 
at  church  portals,"  which  I  cannot  .repudiate, 
for  it  is  founded  upon  fact,  it  is  architecturally 
attractive,  it  pleases  me  ;  besides,  I  think  it 
rather  neat.  But  notice  how  inoffensively, 
and  almost  deprecatingly,  I  insinuate  this  bit 


IOO  A   FELLOWS  AND  HIS  WIFE 

of  rebellion  into  a  discreet  parenthesis  where 
it  will  scarcely  be  observed).  As  for  "pran- 
cings  "  and  "caracolings,"  they  are  abomina 
ble  words.  No  terms  are  harsh  enough  for 
them,  and  nothing  could  be  more  just  than 
your  indignation.  For  they  do  indeed  suggest 
pernicious  things  ;  for  instance,  the  gaudy 
trappings  and  stereotyped  antics  of  some  old 
circus  nag,  and  no  species  of  Pegasus  what 
ever,  with  god-like  soarings  and  poises  above 
a  groveling  world. 

Then  forgive,  shrive,  absolve  your  Odo. 
Lay  your  lovely  hands  upon  my  suppliant 
head,  and  give  me  your  benediction.  But 
grant  me  plenary  indulgence,  too,  for  the  sins 
which  I  am  surely  going  to  commit  every  time 
that  you  goad  me  beyond  endurance. 

You  have  made  me  glad,  wildly  glad,  and 
probably  you  will  not  suspect  why,  as  you 
never  seem  to  suspect  why  some  of  your  most 
amiable  remarks  infuriate  me.  When  your 
letters  come,  I  usually  spend  some  time  in 
readjusting  my  impressions,  which  at  first  get 
surprisingly  out  of  focus,  I  am  sure.  I  am 


A    FELLOWE   AND  HIS  WIFE  IOI 

conscious  that  I  must  destroy  the  proportions 
of  your  charming  little  fleeting  sketches.  I 
probably  make  a  too  matter-of-fact  inventory 
of  your  friends,  pleasures,  and  occupations. 
Shall  one  try  to  seize  the  rainbow  ?  You  are 
happy  and  well.  That  ought  to  satisfy  me. 
I  cannot  follow  your  work  very  clearly.  Doubt 
less  that  mysterious  art-nature,  about  which 
we  have  lost  our  tempers  on  innumerable  oc 
casions,  and  which  is  going  to  provide  us  with 
food  for  excellent  discussions  down  to  a  green 
old  age,  is  thrilling  and  dilating  prodigiously, 
and  girding  up  its  loins  to  do  mighty  things. 
But,  candidly,  if  a  sublunary  being  may  ven 
ture  to  inquire,  you  have  not  actually  done 
much  work  yet,  have  you  ?  Only  a  model 
of  Undine  and  of  that  somewhat  remote 
young  person,  the  Viviani.  A  queer  notion 
that,  and  not  much  money  in  it,  permit  your 
friend,  the  practical  country  farmer,  to  add. 
While  holding  myself  aloof  from  your  pecu 
niary  affairs,  as  categorically  requested,  I 
nevertheless  retain  a  certain  benevolent  inter 
est  in  them,  and  I  think  there  is  more  bread 


102  A  FELLOWS  AND  HIS  WIFE 

and  butter  in  Undine  —  particularly  if  you  let 
her  mouth  contradict  her  eyes.  That  is  an 
irresistible  fascination,  and  will  vastly  increase 
her  market  value.  Take  the  disinterested 
advice  of  a  man  who,  if  destitute  of  esoteric 
art-culture,  has  some  knowledge  of  the  stock 
exchange. 

Are  you  vexed  ?  Then  write  me  another 
hasty,  inconsistent,  adorable  little  letter,  and 
I  will  love  it  more  than  my  life,  and  kiss 
every  tear-stain  in  it,  and  feel  a  great  warm 
glow  in  my  heart,  and  strength  enough  to 
defy  all  evil  chances,  so  perverse  and  jubilant 

is 

Your 

ODO. 


XI 

FROM  THE  SAME  TO  THE  SAME. 

Schloss  Jaromar, 

November  27. 

SOMETIMES  in  your  letters  you  approach  me 
with  richest,  fairest  promise.  Sometimes  you 
recede  and  elude  me.  Sometimes,  reviewing 
the  whole  field,  I  am  forced  to  ask  myself  if  I 
am  in  truth  a  man  of  sense,  or  the  veriest  fool, 
the  most  egregious  ass  that  the  Lord  ever 
made.  Sometimes  — 

It  is  well  that  a  man  has  his  daily  work  to 
do,  though  he  may  now  and  then  grumble  and 
rail  at  it.  To-day,  as  usual,  I  rose  at  half-past 
five  and  rode  out  at  six.  Even  if  there  is  at 
this  season  no  important  field  work  to  summon 
me,  there  is  enough  in  general  going  on,  and 
I  see  no  reason  to  change  my  habits,  especially 
as  my  building  projects  interest  me  greatly, 
and  the  mild  winter  permits  us  to  make  good 
'progress.  I  hope  to  see  my  model  English 


104  A   FELLOWE   AND  HIS  WIFE 

cottages  roofed  and  plastered  before  the  snow 
comes  ;  then  I  shall  leave  them  to  dry.  After 
my  coffee  at  eight,  I  am  engaged  the  entire 
morning  in  my  study  with  correspondence, 
business  of  all  kinds,  the  reports  of  my  stew 
ards  and  others,  as  well  as  various  embassies 
from  the  village.  I  often  smile  to  find  myself 
sitting  here  like  an  octogenarian  patriarch, 
gravely  responding  to  appeals  of  the  most 
delicate  nature.  Old  Malte's  ruddy  counte 
nance  usually  looks  in  during  my  morning 
session,  for  he  is  teaching  Margot  to  ride,  and 
feels  it  incumbent  on  him  to  communicate, 
with  the  empressement  of  court  bulletins,  every 
stage  of  her  progress.  She  is  not  like  that 
fearless  Use-girl,  who  inherited  nerve,  courage, 
and  love  of  horses  in  every  drop  of  her^blood ; 
still,  Margot  does  well  —  she  pleases  us.  I 
am  hurriedly  building  a  manege,  so  that  we 
need  not  be  interrupted  when  the  cold  January 
weather  comes ;  and  then,  under  cover,  it  will 
greatly  amuse  me  to  teach  her  to  jump  and 
play  the  jeu  de  rose,  and  the  ring-game,  and 
the  other  knightly  pastimes  in  which  you  and 


A   FELLOWE  AND  HIS  WIFE  105 

I  long  ago  won  our  spurs.  She  is  beginning 
to  gain  perceptibly  from  so  much  air  and  ex 
ercise.  She  was  certainly  rather  anaemic,  but 
is  well  built,  and  has  a  good  chest'.  A  book 
seller's  daughter  in  Lyons  —  did  I  tell  you?  — 
her  mother  a  rather  exacting  invalid,  as  I 
gather  from  Margot's  innocent  revelations,  the 
poor  child  has  never  had  a  chance  to  grow 
rosy  and  strong.  She  is  pale,  not  only  from 
grief,  I  fancy,  but  from  inveterate  old  habit. 
It  is  now  my  ambition  to  put  some  fresh  color 
into  her  cheeks.  Observe  how  my  paternal 
instinct  "  mounteth  with  occasion."  She  is  a 
good  little  thing,  Margot,  and  fits  so  perfectly 
in  our  household  machinery,  one  can  hardly 
remember  that  she  was  not  always '  here.  In 
my  library  she  is  inestimable.  I  only  begin 
now  to  realize  how  neglected  I  was  before  her 
advent.  Beside  her  neatness  and  system,  she 
is  a  real  little  book-worm,  a  true  book-lover, 
with  a  delight  beyond  her  years  in  bindings, 
and  margins,  and  type.  On  such  points  we 
have  become  great  chums.  I  have  thus  far 
unearthed  for  her,  by  way  of  relatives,  a  bach- 


106  A   FELLOWE   AND  HIS  WIFE 

elor  uncle  in  Paris,  who  desires  her  presence 
apparently  not  at  all,  and  a  cousin  in  Dantzig, 
a  matron  with  a  large  family,  who  wants  her, 
it  would  se*em,  still  less  :  which  is  curious,  as 
her  father's  modest  affairs  were  left  in  good 
order,  and  she  would  not  be  dependent  on  her 
kinsmen,  if  not  precisely  seated  in  the  lap  of 
luxury.  Perhaps  somebody  may  yet  claim  her, 
some  Borike  with  a  more  hospitable  soul  and 
a  breath  of  compassion  for  the  orphan,  but  I 
confess  I  should  be  sorry.  Margot  has  won  a 
place  in  all  our  hearts.  She  is,  of  course,  not 
gay  yet.  One  could  not  expect  it  so  soon  after 
the  shock  and  sorrow.  Her  eyes  are  full  of 
languor  and  memories,  and  she  has  most  heart 
breaking  forlorn  moods.  But  she  is  apt,  re 
ceptive,  grateful,  affectionate,  and  very  young 
after  all,  and  so  occasionally  her  natural  in 
stinct  of  fun  and  lightheartedness  breaks  out 
in  the  sweetest  and  freshest  way.  At  such 
moments  she  is  irresistible,  and  would  delight 
you.  Then  without  being  a  beauty,  she  has 
something  infinitely  engaging  in  her  dark  little 
face,  startling  pretty  moments,  and  those  long 


A   FELLOWE    AND  HIS  WIFE  IO/ 

thin  lines  of  chin  and  throat  and  limb  that  are 
so  maidenly  and  touching,  and  that  a  man 
likes  to  look  at  very  well,  although  aware  that 
they  will  be  prettier  and  better  rounded  some 
day.  You  would  model  her,  I  am  sure,  as  a 
Daphne  or  a  dryad,  or  perhaps  as  Anacreon's 

boy    Bathyllos,    with    his     Xe^09    a7ra\ov    ye/xoi/  T€ 

IIa0ot?,  for  she  has  that  mingling  of  lank,  boy 
ish  contours  and  feminine  softness  dear  to  the 
ancients,  and,  I  may  add,  not  hated  of  us  mod 
erns.  But  Margot's  voice  is  her  supreme 
charm.  You  know  that  there  was  never  a 
man  on  earth  more  sensitive  to  voices  than  I, 
and  you  will  understand  me  when  I  say  that 
this  child's  voice  would  melt  the  soul  of  an 
arch-fiend.  It  has  marvelous  sweetness,  not 
the  nauseating,  syrupy,  cloying,  intentional 
sweetness  of  certain  actresses  and  society 
women,  but  something  innocently  caressing, 
warm,  melodious,  and  with  the  most  fascinat 
ing,  limpid  intonations.  If  she  were  a  harpy 
and  had  that  voice,  she  would  attract  men. 
Freolin  never  heard  her  speak  except  to  say 
"  Good-morning  "  as  she  passed  him  one  day 


108  A   FELLOWE   AND   HIS  WIFE 

at  the  library-door,  but  I  see  plainly  he  is  in  a 
state  of  troubadour-exaltation  and  restlessness, 
staring  at  every  window,  and  looking  suddenly 
over  his  shoulder  as  if  ghosts  walked  in  our 
respectable  house  at  mid-day.  But  I  know 
well  what  my  duties  in  this  case  are,  and  like 
the  sternest  old  duenna,  I  keep  the  child  out 
of  his  way.  If,  as  Paul  Heyse  says,  "Die 
Stimme  ist  der  Mensch"  it  is  a  loving  and 
lovely  soul  that  greet  us  with  Margot's  voice. 

I  was  called  away  from  you  yesterday  to 
receive  twenty  men  who  valiantly  stormed 
my  gates  in  a  hay-cart.  They  were  what  the 
newspaper  reporters  would  gloatingly  describe 
as  the  "flower  of  the  German  army,"  but  they 
looked  like  jolly  schoolboys  off  for  a  holiday, 
and  were  in  the  most  preposterous  spirits ; 
very  young  men,  only  some  of  whom  I  'd  met. 
Freolin  invited  them,  it  seems.  I  gave  them 
something  to  eat,  drink,  and  smoke,  and  went 
out  with  them  later,  taking  Malte  and  Ete. 
We  divided  into  three  groups,  and  shot  a 
couple  of  stags  and  forty  or  fifty  hares. 

Men  come   in  shoals  now,  for  the  hunting 


A   FELLOWE   AND   HIS  WIFE  IOQ 

and  weather  are  superb.  I  like  my  old  friends 
to  feel  comfortable  in  Jaromar.  I  like  them 
to  know  that  they  are.  welcome,  whether  they 
remember  to  telegraph  from  Berlin  or  arrive 
unannounced.  I  like  to  come  home  and  find 
Mahlzahn  and  Freolin,  divested  of  their  uni 
forms,  stretching  themselves  in  my  dressing- 
gowns  and  smoking  in  my  study.  Those  shin 
ing  ones,  inseparable  as  Castor  and  Pollux,  are 
here  at  all  times.  They  present  their  homages 
to  you,  and  blandly  propose  that  we  adopt 
them  —  the  flaxen  and  not  wholly  guileless 
babes  of  twenty-seven.  I  like,  in  short,  to 
have  the  house  full,  and  keep  bachelor-hall ; 
but  how  much  better  I  should  like  my  friends, 
the  old  house,  the  whole  world,  if  there  were 
a  sweet  and  stately  chatelaine  here  to  help  me 
do  the  honors. 

Ah,  Use,  when  do  I  not  wish  for  you  ? 
Where  do  I  not  need  you  !  If  you  were  riding 
by  my  side  these  frosty,  dusky  mornings,  what 
sunshine  would  glow  in  my  heart,  and  how  my 
cottages  would  grow,  and  .how  like  magic  the 
men  would  work,  hammering,  after  one  smile 


HO  A   FELLOWE  AND  HIS  WIFE 

from  you,  like  great  Thor  himself.  And  while 
I  am  busy  with  the  stewards  and  their  stupid 
accounts  and  papers,  why  should  you  not 
model  to  your  heart's  content,  and  be  quite 
alone,  and  think  and  dream,  as  free  and  unmo 
lested  and  happy  as  in  Rome  ?  And  later  in 
the  day,  there  is  so  much  to  do,  together  or 
apart  as  we  choose.  There  are  your  people 
and  the  neighbors,  and  old  friends  far  and  near, 
to  whom  we  would  ride  ;  the  villagers  with 
their  innumerable  needs,  and  trustful  fashion 
of  seeking  advice  at  the  Schloss ;  the  hosts  of 
things  I  am  doing  and  planning  for  them. 
There  are  the  long  evenings,  with  more  time 
for  music  and  reading  than  one  ever  finds  in  a 
city ;  yet  with  the  best  that  cities  can  give,  the 
results  of  their  thought  and  work  in  the  new 
books  and  magazines  constantly  pouring  in 
from  Berlin,  Paris,  Rome,  London,  Boston,  and 
New  York  ;  so  that  our  quiet  little  island  in 
the  Baltic  is  in  touch  with  movement  and  pro 
gress  everywhere,  and,  thanks  to  the  world's 
sensitive  nervous  system  nowadays,  is  enabled 
to  rejoice  and  mourn  with  distant  lands,  in 


A   FELLOWE  AND  HIS  WIFE  III 

instantaneous  responsive  sympathy.  Think, 
too,  of  our  well-loved  guests,  whose  brains  and 
hearts  lend  such  a  charm  to  fireside  chats, 
that  midnight  steals  upon  us  unawares,  and  we 
part  reluctantly  with  spirits  all  aglow.  Why  is 
it  not  a  good  life,  Use  ?  "  Parochial,"  do  you 
say  ?  I  have  thought  much  and  gravely  of 
that  word  since  you  used  it  in  connection  with 
yourself.  A  profane  word,  indeed,  applied  to 
the  white  northern  Freia  —  most  innocent 
goddess  of  love  and  youth  —  wandering  by 
some  irony  of  fate  among  their  weary,  world- 
worn  Latin  Venuses. 

For  myself,  too,  I  disclaim  it.  I  am  not  an 
iota  more  provincial  than  if  I  were  handling 
wet  clay  a  small  portion  of  my  time  and  flirt 
ing  exhaustively  in  pretty  women's  boudoirs 
the  remainder.  In  one  sense  we  are  all  pa 
rochial,  and  this  little  planet  itself,  I  presume, 
in  comparison  with  the  vaster  and  more  me 
tropolitan  interests  of  the  universe. 

But  one  thing  is  sure,  Use  —  it  all  depends 
upon  a  man's  mental  attitude,  not  upon  where 
he  happens  to  spend  his  days.  There  are  cir- 


112  A   FELLOWE  AND  HIS  WIFE 

cles,  so-called  best  circles  too,  in  the  largest 
cities,  where  men's  motives  and  daily  routine 
become  pitifully  mean,  and  stereotyped,  and 
small  as  in  the  smallest  hamlet.  It  is  al 
ways  the  same  houses,  the  same  clubs,  the 
same  gossip  revamped  from  year  to  year. 
What  does  it  matter  whether  in  Paris  or  Lon 
don,  Berlin  or  Rome  ?  I  am  glad  of  my  six 
weeks  of  army  life  twice  a  year.  That  keeps 
me  in  training,  and  holds  good  old  associations 
warm.  I  am  glad,  too,  that  my  wheat,  rye, 
hay,  cattle,  machines,  and  other  delectable 
things,  to  the  level  of  which  you  are  not  yet 
educated,  call  me  to  the  city  often,  and  that  I 
must  make  certain  visits,  and  meet  certain 
men,  in  society  as  on  the  stock  exchange,  and 
can  hear  some  good  music  and  an  occasional 
premiere  at  the  theatre.  I  like  it  all  for  awhile, 
but  when  I  come  away  I  breathe  freer.  And 
so,  perhaps  I  am  parochial,  after  all,  and  if  I 
am,  I  don't  care.  Names  never  frightened  me 
much. 

For  I  love  Jaromar  every  inch,  and  Jaromar 
loves  me,  and  lets  me  tyrannize  unblushingly 


A   FELLOWE  AND  HIS  WIFE  113 

over  it ;  and  I  am  proud  to  be  Odo,  by  the 
Grace  of  God,  King  of  Jaromar.  A  small 
kingdom,  indeed,  but  large  enough  to  absorb  a 
man's  best  brain  and  heart  and  strength,  and 
one  that  I  long  to  leave  better,  happier,  and 
healthier  than  I  found  it  —  its  lands,  its  men 
and  women  and  children.  And  when  you 
come  at  last,  beloved,  to  be  near  me,  to  help 
me  with  your  insight,  your  counsel,  your 
sweetness,  your  lighter,  sunnier  nature,  to  give 
me  all  that  I  need  and  crave  in  this  or  any 
other  world,  then  I  shall  be  so  strong  and 
glad  that  I  can  do  all  I  would  for  my  peo 
ple,  the  work  of  ten  mighty  men,  huge  as  the 
giants  of  old  that  lie  buried  in  my  park.  For 
I  am  lonely  without  you,  Use,  and  perplexed 
and  desperate  and  morose  at  times,  more  than 
you  suspect. 

I  cannot  always  speak  of  it.  To  what  end  ? 
We  have  chosen  our  course.  But,  indeed, 
indeed,  I  love  you  with  all  my  strength,  and 
I  need  you,  and  long  for  you  by  day  and 
by  night,  and  hunger  for  your  return  unceas 
ingly. 


114  A   FELLOWE   AND  HIS  WIFE 

Surely  it  is  worth  living,  the  life  we  could 
live  together  ?  And  all  that  you  hold  dear  and 
beautiful  I  would  respect.  Must  you,  then,  go 
so  far,  so  far,  for  your  art  ?  If  it  is  worth  any 
thing,  is  it  not  here  too  ?  Is  it  not  every 
where  ?  The  other  day  it  was  so  mild,  the 
fishermen  sat  in  the  afternoon  sunshine  along 
the  wall  on  the  shore,  and  I  watched  them 
with  a  heart-ache,  and  thought,  "  Why  does 
she  not  care  for  these  splendid  fellows  ?  Why 
must  she  have  Romans  ?  "  Old  Martin  went 
by  with  his  closed  lids  and  outstretched,  grop 
ing  hands.  Forty  years  stone-blind,  and  once 
the  most  dare-devil  sailor  on  the  bay.  And  I 
thought,  "  Has  she  seen  anything  in  Rome 
more  wonderful  than  the  infinite  resignation 
of  that  old  man's  mouth  ?  " 

But  wherever  I  go,  whatever,  whomever  I 
see,  I  am  always  seeing  only  you,  talking  only 
to  you,  trying  to  convince  you  that  home  is 
best.  When  I  ride  under  our  ancient  Hertha- 
beeches  and  thousand-year-old  oaks  stretching 
their  huge  bare  black  shapes  against  the 
wintry  sky,  I  call  to  you,  "  Oh,  Use,  how  can 


A   FELLOWE  AND  HIS  WIFE  115 

you  care  more  for  their  cypresses  and  ilexes 
than  for  these  mighty  trees,  beneath  which 
those  old  heathen,  our  fierce  Wend  forefathers, 
sacrificed  to  their  strange  Slavic  gods,  after 
slaughtering  the  Germanic  Riigier,  and  seizing 
their  beautiful  fertile  island  ?  Do  you  not 
weary  for  our  great  white  chalk  cliffs  towering 
from  blue  waters,  and  for  the  rolling  dunes  ? 
And  have  we  not  history  and  tradition  enough, 
Runic  stones,  legends  and  fairy  lore,  tales  of 
demon  and  sprite,  sunken  palaces,  buried  cities, 
hidden  treasures  and  amber-gods,  magic,  mys 
tery,  and  poetry  everywhere  ?  Have  they  haugh 
tier  races  in  Rome  than  our  old  sea  kings  ?  " 
So  I  plead  with  you,  and  it  is  all  futile,  for  if 
you  do  not  want  to  come,  I  do  not  —  no,  no, 
it  is  not  true.  God  help  me,  I  would  often 
have  you  come,  whether  y.ou  want  to  or  not ! 

Use,  think,  if  you  were  ever  restless  here, 
there  is  always  my  yacht.  At  a  word  from 
you  how  quickly  we  could  fly  away,  to  Copen 
hagen,  to  the  North  Cape,  to  Iceland,  Eng 
land,  —  wherever  you  would.  Often  when 
the  Northwind  is  skimming  along  like  a  bird, 


Il6  A   FELLOWE  AND  HIS  WIFE 

I  have  longed  to  swoop  southwards  like  a 
Viking,  land  somewhere  with  a  few  trusty 
men,  seize  you  in  Rome,  and  bear  you  away  in 
triumph — an  inspiring  dream,  and  not  paro 
chial,  Use.  Another  dream,  less  romantic  and 
picturesque,  but  more  comforting  to  me,  is 
that  after  you  of  your  own  free  will  come  home 
to  Jaromar,  then  I  of  my  own  free  will  would 
later  go  down  to  Rome  with  you.  Why  not? 
I  could  not  now  ;  I  would  not,  and  —  I  must 
not.  But  then,  you  would  see,  I  should  be 
very  good,  and  amazingly  appreciative  and 
sympathetic,  and  I  should  not  be  in  the  way  at 
all.  I  would  be  as  docile  as  one  of  your  little 
graven  images,  and  we  would  stay  a  few 
months,  and  then  we  would  come  home  to 
Jaromar  right  joyfully  —  and  together. 

ODO. 


XII 

FROM  THE  COUNTESS  TO  COUNT  VON  JAROMAR. 

Palazzo  Malaspina, 

December  3. 

WHAT  a  charming  surprise !  Imagine  it, 
Odo.  My  little  room  is  full  of  flowers  —  roses, 
roses,  roses  ;  red,  white,  and  yellow.  I  came  in 
out  of  the  glare,  for  it  is  a  sirocco  day,  after 
an  early  stroll  on  the  Pincio,  and  here  I  am, 
like  a  nested  bird  —  the  only  difference  being 
that  if  I  were  a  bird,  I  would  sing  out  my 
small  soul  right  blithely,  while,  as  it  is,  I  only 
hum  to  myself  that  dear,  sleepy,  humdrum, 
altogether  delightful  nursery  song  we  used  to 
sing  as  children  on  Sunday  evenings  at  Jaro- 
mar, 

"O  schone,  schone  Bliimchen, 
Ein  Bliimchen  auch  mein  Herz!" 

Ah,  human  angels,  as  Jean  Paul  says,  have 
no  grand  names  ;  though,  indeed,  Rohrich  is 
not  such  a  bad  name  even  for  an  angel.  What 


Il8  A   PEL  LOWE  AND  HIS   WIFE 

kind  friends  they  are !  I  know  how  it  is.  I 
happened  to  say  at  dinner  last  night  that  I  loved 
roses  at  all  times,  of  course,  but  that  at  the 
approach  of  winter  I  loved  them  tenfold.  And 
these  are  such  beautiful  ones.  I  wonder  where 
the  Rb'hrichs  got  them.  Those  yellow  blooms 
are  Fiori  di  Monica,  exquisite  things  with  an 
indescribable  fragrance,  that  are  said  to  grow 
in  August  in  the  Pope's  gardens  beyond  the 
Alban  Lake.  Flowers  do  make  me  so  happy. 
I  have  a  charming  idea :  I  shall  carve  two 
lovely  little  ivory  figures,  one  Rose,  and  the 
other  Lily,  and  make  each  the  very  spirit  of 
the  flower  it  stands  for.  What  a  joy  it  will 
be  to  me  to  do  this.  But  I  am  not  going  to 
restrict  myself  to  carving  in  ivory.  Next  week 
I  am  to  model,  under  Herwegh's  tuition,  on  a 
large  scale.  The  other  day  I  was  driving  with 
my  friend  on  the  Campagna,  beyond  the  Porta 
Furba,  and  some  miles  out,  just  where  the 
Claudian  aqueduct  sinks  like  a  reef  in  an  in 
coming  tide,  I  noticed,  under  a  broken  arch, 
the  loveliest  boy  I  have  ever  seen.  He  was  a 
young  shepherd,  and  was  clad  in  goatskin  ;  but 


A   FELLOWS  AND  HIS  WIFE  119 


his  legs  were  bare,  and  his  brown  throat.  His 
large  black  eyes  were  ever  so  much  lovelier 
than  those  of  Lucrezia  Mallerini,  and  he  had 
that  thickly  clustered  black  hair  which  is  so 
like  the  heavy  masses  of  the  fruit  of  the  hedge- 
ivy.  He  rose  slowly,  stretched  himself,  gave 
a  long,  shrill  cry  to  his  scraggy  sheep,  and  then 
moved  out  of  sight  behind  one  of  the  aque 
duct's  ruined  arches.  I  heard  him  singing 
softly  to  himself  as  he  went,  and  could  just 
catch  — 

"Obeli  — 1  — la! 
B'la  —  a  .  .  .  tal  —  ya  —  a 

E'ssima  .  .  ." 

and  then,  with  a  sudden,  deeper  note  — 

"  Al  mio,  al  mio,  al  mio  cuore  !  " 
And  he  certainly  went  to  my  heart,  the  beau 
tiful  boy.  I  tell  you  all  this  because  I  have 
decided  to  model  a  life-size  statue  of  him,  as 
I  saw  him  when  he  had  risen,  and  had  thrown 
back  his  head  with  a  panther-like  grace,  while 
he  gave  his  strange  shepherding  cry.  Her- 
wegh  has  undertaken  to  secure  him  for  me  as 
a  model ;  I  hope  he  may  be  successful.  If  so, 


120  A    FELLOWE   AND  HIS  WIFE 

I  shall  begin  next  Monday,  and  at  Herwegh's 
studio,  of  course.  I  am  so  excited  about  it. 
If  I  succeed  in  modeling  in  the  clay  in  life- 
size,  I  shall  make  a  replica  in  terra-cotta  to 
send  to  the  Salon  in  Paris  !  No  !  I  am  not 
yet  an  Immortal  condescending  to  a  Mortal ! 
Now,  don't  laugh,  Odo ;  for  though  I  am  laugh 
ing  myself  at  my  own  folly,  I  wish  you  to  sym 
pathize  with  me  with  all  your  heart  and  soul. 
I  have  stopped  writing  for  five  minutes,  and 
what  do  you  think  for  ?  I  could  not  resist 
those  roses.  I  have  made  a  wreath  of  those 
deep  crimson  ones,  the  Hearts  o'  Love,  and 
crowned  myself  therewith,  and  I  have  pinned 
the  Fiori  di  Monica  in  clusters  about  my 
neck  till  I  am  like  another  Clytie ;  and  as  for 
the  others,  each  as  lovely  and  fragrant  as 
though  this  were  the  birthday  of  June,  here 
they  are  all  lying  in  my  lap  in  the  most  deli 
cious  confusion.  My  lips  are  wet  with  their 
cool  dew.  Ah,  I  must  sing  you  that  wild 
Spanish  song  I  promised  to  translate  for  you. 
I  have  learned  the  native  tune  of  it,  a  strange, 
half-savage  lifting,  falling,  rising  kind  of  chant, 


A   FELLOWE  AND  HIS  WIFE  12 1 

wilder  than  the  words.  It  is  gypsy  music,  and 
one  can  hear  their  fierce  pulse  beating  through 
the  haunting  melody,  so  unlike  anything  I 

know. 

"  Roses,  roses, 
Yellow  and  red  ; 
A  rose  for  the  living, 
A  rose  for  the  dead  ! 
Who  '11  sip  their  dew  ? 
There  are  only  a  few 
Of  the  yellow  and  red  ; 
Youth  sells  its  roses 
Ere  youth  is  sped. 

"  Roses,  roses, 
All  for  delight; 
What  of  the  night  ? 
Hark,  the  tramp,  tramp, 
The  scabbard's  clamp, 
The  flaring  lamp ! 
Where  is  the  morning  dew  ? 
Ah,  only  a  few 

Drank  ere  the  yellow  and  red 
Lay  shriveled,  shriveled, 
Over  the  dead. 

"  Roses,  roses, 
Buy,  oh,  buy ! 


122  A    EELLOWE  AND   HIS  WIFE 


The  years  fly, 
'T  is  the  time  of  roses. 
Here  are  posies 
For  one  and  all, 
For  lovers  that  sigh 
And  for  lovers  that  die  ; 
And  for  love's  pall 
And  burial ! 

"  Roses,  roses,  roses,  buy,  buy,  oh,  buy  ! 
Why  delay,  why  delay,  roses  also  die. 
Pink  and  yellow,  blood-red,  snow-white. 
Roses  for  dayspring,  roses  for  night ! 

"  Buy,  buy,  oh,  my  roses  buy  ! 
A  kiss  for  a  kiss,  and  a  sigh  for  a  sigh ! " 

There,  now,  if  you  do  not  say  something 
nice  to  me  for  that,  I  shall  never,  never  sing 
to  you  again  ! 

Addio,  dear  Odo ;  I  am  so  happy.  How  I 
love  Rome ! 

Ever  your  affectionate 

ILSE. 

P.  S.  I  forgot  to  say  that  I  now  see  my 
way  to  keeping  myself !  Besides,  I  see  how 
I  can  reduce  my  expenses  by  at  least  four  lire 


A   PEL  LOWE  AND  HIS  WIFE  123 


a  day.  I  have  made  an  arrangement  at  a 
Trattoria  in  the  Via  Capo  le  Case  close  by. 
Lilien  Rohrich,  who  has  just  looked  in,  is 
amused  at  my  carefulness.  She  says  I  shall 
make  a  capital  Hausfrau  !  What  do  you  say 
to  that,  Odo  ?  I  must  close  ;  I  am  going  out 
with  her.  She  envies  me  my  wealth  of  roses, 
and  can't  think  where  they  come  from.  In 
this  mystery  I  am  going  to  fall  back  on  His 
Holiness  the  Pope ! 

A  good  thick  letter  from  you  has  this  mo 
ment  come.  I  cannot  stop  to  open  it,  for 
Lilien  is  waiting. 


XIII 

FROM  THE  COUNT  TO  THE  COUNTESS  VON  JAROMAR. 

Schloss  Jaromar, 

December  7. 

MY  DEAREST  ILSE  : 

I  am  going  to  ask  you  to  cease  your  pretty 
poetic  soarings  for  a  while,  and  scrutinize  more 
closely  the  somewhat  miry  ground  beneath 
your  feet.  I  have  thus  far  refrained  from  ex 
pressing  my  opinion  of  your  associates.  In 
the  first  place,  you  have  not  requested  it ;  in 
the  second,  I  shrank  from  the  role  of  Cassan 
dra.  Then  I  trusted  you  boundlessly.  You 
are  clever,  sensitive,  and  good.  To  such  as 
you,  slimy  things  do  not  cling. 

"  Wem  Gott  will  rechte  Gunst  erweisen 
Den  schickt  er  in  die  weite  Welt," 

said  the  poet,  and,  I  fancy,  foresaw  your  case. 
Why  should  you  not  meet  and  know  all  sorts 
of  people  ?  You  would  inevitably  be  con 
fronted  with  unpleasant  experiences,  but  why 


A   FELLOWE  AND  HIS  WIFE  125 

not,  I  reasoned  ?  Why  should  a  woman  not 
make  the  best  of  them  and  learn  from  them  as 
a  man  does  —  or  at  least  ought  ?  The  time  is 
past  when  we  wrapped  her  in  cotton-wool,  and 
believed  that  if  a  breath  of  gossip  blew  upon 
her,  her  reputation  was  irretrievably  tarnished. 
Only  tinsel  tarnishes  so  easily.  Pure  gold  can 
bear  rough'  handling.  Reputations  are  happily 
nowadays  less  fragile  and  anaemic  than  for 
merly.  They  meet  many  ill-winds,  yet  remain 
strong,  sound,  and  sweet.  It  is  not,  then,  from 
motives  of  narrow  conventional  caution  that  I 
speak.  This,  I  think,  you  will  believe. 

Use,  little  lichen,  dear  little  girl  —  you  are 
so  appallingly  clever,  you  dance  about  so  allur 
ingly  in  your  letters,  you  are  so  literary,  so 
artistic,  that  I  don't  pretend  to  keep  pace  with 
you  at  all.  Every  moment  the  dainty  kalei 
doscope  presents  new  colors  and  new  forms. 
Yet  one  underlying  truth  is  clear  tome.  You 
are,  in  spite  of  your  cleverness,  only  a  little 
girl,  after  all.  This  touches,  comforts,  and 
makes  me  anxious  all  at  once. 

I  have  to-day  read  and  re-read  all  your  let- 


126  A   FELLOWE  AND  HIS  WIFE 

ters.  I  have  followed  every  step  of  your  way 
in  Rome,  and  considered  you  and  your  sur 
roundings  as  unselfishly  and  as  accurately  as 
my  mental  machinery  permits  —  with  this  re 
sult  :  you  seem  to  me  a  lovely  innocent-eyed 
child  smiling  serenely  at  bandits. 

You  may  retort  that  I  am  prejudiced.  To 
a  certain  degree,  I  no  doubt  am.  Let  us  dis 
count  that.  You  may  even  add  that  I  am 
jealous.  I  don't  pose  for  a  disembodied  spirit. 
I  am  a  very  human  man  thirty  years  old,  and 
I  love  you.  Hence  certain  incidents  in  your 
career  do  not  have  precisely  the  effect  of  a 
lullaby  on  my  emotions.  Let  us  discount,  then, 
as  much  as  you  please  for  vague  heavy  discon 
tent  and  suspicions,  when  not  actual  Othello- 
moods.  But  after  all  my  limitations  are  de 
ducted,  there  still  remains  in  my  favor  a  solid 
modicum  of  common  sense  upon  which  I  base 
my  remarks. 

I  don't  like  Herwegh.  I  did  n't  like  him 
in  your  first  letter,  but  I  acknowledged  your 
sovereign  right  to  choose  your  friends.  The 
Rohrichs  and  the  HeidelofTs  are  amiable  non- 


A   FELLOWE   AND  HIS  WIFE  \2J 

entities,  not  a  little  selfish  and  cowardly,  as 
are  most  out-and-out  society  people.  They  do 
not  dare  to  tell  you  what  they  see  quite  clearly. 
They  shrug  their  shoulders  and  say,  "  After 
all,  why  should  we  burn  our  fingers  ?  It  is  life, 
and  Countess  Use  is  not  an  infant-in-arms. 
She  would  not  thank  us  for  interfering.  If 
she  did  not  seek  adventures,  she  would  have 
Count  Jaromar  with  her."  Forgive  me,  dear. 
You  know  what  /  think,  but  the  world  thinks 
otherwise.  It  does  not  respect  your  motives. 
It  refuses  to  believe  that  you  and  I  are  loyal 
friends,  although  separated  by  two  thousand 
miles.  The  world's  opinion  is  in  itself  unim 
portant,  but  when  one  braves  it  tete  baissee,  as 
you  ar.e  braving  it  now,  one  usually  wants  a 
good  reason.  However,  it  is  not  on  account 
of  the  world  or  for  my  sake  that  I  make  this 
appeal,  but  purely  to  save  you  from  annoyance, 
which  it  requires  no  gift  of  prophecy  to  see 
threatening  you. 

Your  Mallerini  ghouls  do  not  disturb  me. 
They  stride  about  like  gloomy  stage-villains 
in  mantles,  doing  a  great  deal  of  glittering 


128  A   FELLOWE  AND  HIS  WIFE 

eye-business,  but  not  much  else.  If  this  in 
activity  pleases  the  noble  Cesare  under  exist 
ing  circumstances,  that  is  his  affair.  I  don't 
pretend  to  understand  Italians  ;  but  I  under 
stand  Friedrich  Herwegh  uncommonly  well. 
He  is  not  playing  a  fair  game  with  you.  He 
cannot  play  a  fair  game  with  any  woman. 
Perhaps  he  could  once,  but  he  cannot  now. 
He  has  become  altogether  too  picturesquely 
erotic.  It  is  almost  inconceivable  that  a  wo 
man  who  sees  every  flitting  nuance  in  sunset 
clouds,  every  microscopic  wrinkle  beneath  the 
lower  eyelid  of  a  beautiful  visitor,  should  be 
blind  to  facts  as  conspicuous  as  the  Coliseum. 
It  may  be  the  innate  depravity  of  my  sex  that 
renders  us  more  clear-sighted  in  this  turbulent 
province  of  human  affairs  ;  for,  believe  me, 
any  man,  the  dullest,  would  have  long  ago  per 
ceived  what  you  airily  and  blissfully  ignore. 
Men's  souls  will  require  a  sublimating  process 
for  a  few  centuries  yet,  before  they  arrive  at 
woman's  bland  unconsciousness  of  evil.  It 
almost  reconverts  me  to  the  mediaeval  idea  of 
woman's  inability  to  stand  alone.  Badinage 


A   FELLOWE  AND  HIS  WIFE  129 

aside  —  Use,  dear  girl,  it  makes  me  long  to 
protect  you,  yet  I  know  when  once  your  at 
tention  is  aroused,  you  will  not  need  me,  you 
will  protect  yourself.  Not  that  there  is  any 
positive  danger,  but  most  assuredly  there  is 
the  possibility  of  extremely  unpleasant  com 
plications.  In  fact,  your  conduct  and  your 
obliviousness  invite  them.  They  can  scarcely 
fail  ta  respond.  Permit  me  one  practical  sug 
gestion.  Surely  Herwegh's  studio  is  not  es 
sential  to  your  art  work  ?  I  am  aware,  of 
course,  that  you  are  conventionally  guarded 
there,  that  there  are  other  students,  but  there 
is  only  one  Use,  and  I  know  better  than  you 
what  is  passing  in  Herwegh's  mind. 

Dear,  sweet,  lovely,  reckless  Use,  putting 
aside  the  fateful  facts  that  you  are  a  woman, 
after  all,  and  my  beloved  wife,  there  are  still 
other  reasons  why  what  I  say  ought  to  have 
some  weight  with  you  ;  for  if  you  were  a  man 
and  my  friend,  if  I  cared  for  your  happiness 
and  remembered  your  youth,  I  should,  without 
fear  of  offense,  say,  "  Better  not  be  too  inti 
mate  with  these  people.  They  are  slippery. 


130  A   FELLOWE   AND  HIS  WIFE 

Honest  men  are  better  companions  in  the 
long  run."  So  do  not  think  me  presuming,  or 
arrogant,  or  "  mannish,"  as  you  used  to  say 
so  indignantly.  If  I  were  silent  now,  I  should 
commit  a  crime.  Sweetheart,  don't  go  to 
Herwegh's  studio.  Don't  flatter  him  so  far. 
Don't  encourage  him.  Of  course  I  know, 
and  you  knew,  it  was  he  who  rilled  your  bower 
with  roses.  I  may  not  like  that  much,  because 
I  don't  like  him,  but  it  is,  after  all,  a  trifle  — 
a  mere  passing  attention.  Why  then  make 
a  mystery  of  it  ?  You  observe  I  do  not  say, 
"Avoid  him  completely."  Why  should  you, 
indeed  ?  He  is  a  good  authority,  and  stimu 
lating  to  your  work.  Use  him,  then,  as  an 
artist,  but  leave  the  man  to  his  Mallerini  and 
other  flames.  There,  I  have  spoken,  and 
plainly  enough.  Believe  me,  trust  me,  not 
because  I  am  your  husband,  but  because  I 
would  give  my  heart's  blood  for  your  happi 
ness,  and  am  your  friend, 

Your  loving,  loyal 

ODO. 


A   FELLOWE  AND  HIS  WIFE  131 

Dearest,  could  you  not  come  home  for 
Christmas  ?  May  I  not  come  for  you,  or  meet 
you  ?  You  would  not  lose  many  days,  and 
letters  are  wretched  things,  worse  than  ever 
just  now.  All  would  be  sunny  and  clear 
again.  And  the  joy !  It  takes  away  my 
breath  —  the  mere  thought  of  it !  And  you 
could  go  back  immediately.  Will  you  not 
consider  it  in  all  its  bearings  ?  Ah,  Use ! 
Use  !  come  ! 


XIV 

FROM    THE   COUNTESS    TO    COUNT   VON    JAROMAR. 

Palazzo  Malaspina, 

December  n. 

No,  no,  no ;  a  hundred  times  no !  How 
foolish  you  are  !  It  does  seem  to  me  so  ex 
traordinary  that  you  cannot  or  will  not  under 
stand.  Why  should  I  not  see  so  much  of 
Friedrich  Herwegh  ?  He  is  one  of  the  best 
and  kindest  of  friends.  I  can't  tell  you  how 
much  I  owe  to  him.  And  now  that  I  go  to 
his  studio  five  mornings  in  the  week,  I  seem 
to  be  learning  my  art  by  strides.  Of  course 
he  means  much  to  me.  Why  should  n't  he  ? 
I  am  the  better  every  hour  of  the  day  for  his 
help  and  guidance  ;  and  he  is  so  entertaining. 
Besides,  I  have  found  the  earnest  side  of  him. 
He  sees  not  only  that  I  am  not  a  woman  of 
the  kind  he  is  accustomed  to  meet,  but  that 
he  has  been  mistaken  in  his  common  attitude 
towards  women  generally.  He  told  me  this 


A   FELLOWE  AND  HIS  WIFE  133 

himself.  He  has  very  fine  qualities.  Now, 
why  should  you  wish  me  to  be  without  such  a 
friend  ?  I  am  likely  to  get  nothing  but  good 
from  him,  while  I  am  not  at  all  sure  of  the 
benefits  of  association  with  the  Mallerinis  ;  and 
yet  you  do  not  warn  me  against  them. 

I  hate  these  misunderstandings  ;  but  I  am 
not  to  blame.  No,  Odo,  I  am  not  in  the  least 
anxious  to  be  at  home  at  Christmas.  If  it  is 
a  fine  day,  we  (that  is,  the  Heideloffs,  a  Mr. 
Graeme,  an  English  artist,  with  his  young 
wife,  and  Herwegh,  and  I)  think  of  going  to 
St.  John  Lateran,  to  hear  and  see  High  Mass 
celebrated  by  Cardinal  Fabrizzi,  and  then  of 
going  by  carriage  to  Marino,  and  of  walking 
thence  to  Castel  Gandolfo,  and  then  on  by  the 
ilex-avenues  to  Albano,  where  we  shall  dine, 
and  then  drive  home  across  the  Campagna. 

I  am  looking  forward  to  it  immensely.  The 
North  seems  to  me  very  chilly  and  gloomy. 

But  I  '11  think  of  you  at  Jaromar,  and  drink 
your  health  in  the  pleasant  vino  di  Velletri ; 
but  only  if  you  are  good,  and  if  I  have  another 
and  pleasanter  letter  before  Christmastide. 


134  A   PEL  LOWE   AND  HIS  WIFE 

I  am  much  perturbed  about  your  letter.  I  do 
wish  you  were  not  always  thinking  of  me. 
Surely  we  can  be  husband  and  wife,  and  yet 
not  always  fidgeting  about  each  other.  I  am 
not  a  child. 

And  now,  pray,  per  amor  di  Dio>  do  not 
conclude  that  I  do  not  love  you,  or  that  I  am 
drifting  away  from  you,  because  I  speak  what 
is  in  my  mind.  I  cannot  work  when  I  am  per 
turbed.  I  have  lost  my  precious  morning,  and 
I  don't  know  what  Herwegh  will  say  to  me. 

But  I  won't  scold  you  any  more  just  now. 
What  glorious  sunbathed  days  we  are  having. 
It  is  probably  drip-drip-dripping,  or  snowing, 
or  freezing,  at  Jaromar.     Ugh  !     I  shiver. 
Your  affectionate 

ILSE. 


XV 

FROM    THE   SAME   TO    THE    SAME. 

Palazzo  Malaspina, 

December  14. 

DEAR  FRIEND  : 

I  am  so  happy  to-day.  It  seems,  as  I  sit 
here  at  my  open  window,  and  with  my  doves 
(I  call  them  mine,  for  three  of  them  have 
grown  quite  tame,  and  come  often  to  my  win 
dow  to  be  fed  and  stroked)  flying  backward 
and  forward  against  the  beautiful  intense  blue 
of  the  sky,  that  into  this  warm  Roman  air, 
wherein,  alas,  garlic,  and  what  my  trim  Lisa 
calls  "  pitiable  odors,"  mingle  with  delicious 
fragrances  from  a  small  roof-garden  that  would 
be  below  me  if  my.  house  were  to  make  "  a  rev 
erence  "  towards  His  Holiness  over  the  way  — 
say  for  ten  yards.  "  Oh,  Use,  that  full  stop  !  " 
you  will  exclaim  ;  but,  caro  mio,  the  sentence 
was  so  long,  and,  moreover,  I  wanted  to  tell 
you  that  I  can  hear  the  splash-splash  of  the 


136  A   FELLOWE  AND  HIS  WIFE 

great  fountain  in  the  Piazza  di  Spagna  —  an 
other  faint  echo -splash,  I  do  believe,  from 
either  the  Fontana  di  Accademia  or  the  Tri- 
tone  (for  I  don't  know  which  way  the  wind 
is),  and  a  delicious  gurgling  from  our  dear, 
ridiculous,  puffy,  impossible  bronze  river-god 
in  the  court  below  me.  This  gladness  of  fall 
ing  water  everywhere  in  Rome  makes  me  so 
happy.  It  is  like  children's  joyous  laughter 
floating  across  one  of  our  old  north-country 
graveyards.  But,  there,  what  a  hopeless  per 
son  I  am  ;  I  shall  never  get  on  with  my  sen 
tence.  And  no  wonder,  you  would  say,  if  you 

« 

could  see  me  and  my  surroundings  for  a  mo 
ment.  Such  a  delightful  fancy  seized  me  this 
morning — to  model  a  little  Spirit  of  Fruit. 
To  this  end  ("  O  deceitful  Use  !  I  know  too 
well  your  insatiable  love  of  fruit  for  you  to 
deceive  me  by  so  palpable  a  ruse,"  you  will 
cry  —  but  unjustly  !)  I  have  expended  —  no,  I 
won't  tell  you  how  many  lire,  upon  a  beautiful 
heap  —  it  is  not  only  the  best  word,  but  the 
only  word  —  of  blood-red,  dark  purple,  dusky 
yellow,  and  pale  green  grapes,  large,  violet- 


A   FELLOWE  AND  HIS  WIFE  137 


hued  plums,  some  long,  thin  jargonelles,  a  pile 
of  delicious  country-bumpkin-looking  apples, 
some  trying  to  be  all  sunny-yellow  or  gold, 
and  others  literally  swelling  with  ruddy  pride, 
and,  lastly,  about  a  dozen  large  divided  pome 
granates,  so  full  of  wine-dark  juice  as  to  look 
like  cocoanut-cups  filled  with  claret  and  bruised 
rasps.  I  bought  the  pomegranates  yesterday 
from  an  old  woman  who  has  a  broken-down 
rickety  fruit-stall  close  to  the  Trevi  fountain, 
near  the  Trajan  Forum.  She  was  amazed  at  a 
Signorina  da  cielo  buying  so  many  of  these 
bulky  pomegranates,  and  insisted  upon  send 
ing  them  by  her  (invisible)  grandson,  till  I 
explained  that  I  had  my  little  carriage  close 
by.  She  called  me  "  her  daughter,"  a  "  heav 
enly  angel "  (which,  by  the  way,  was  a  neat 
compliment  to  herself  too  !)  a  "  blessed  Signo 
rina,  whom  all  Saints  would,  or  should  (I  for 
get  which)  protect  forever,"  her  "  generous 
and  noble  benefactor,"  and  I  don't  know  what 
else. 

This  line  represents  a  blank  of  three  hours. 


138  A   PEL  LOWE   AND  HIS  WIFE 

I  have  been  lunching  with  some  friends, 
people  I  met  when  I  was  at  the  Hotel  d' Italia. 
What  a  noble  work,  that  head  of  Juno,  at  the 
Ludovisi  !  Oh,  dear  me,  what  a  child  I  feel 
when  I  am  beside  some  of  these  superb  cre 
ations  of  the  old  Greek  sculptors.  I  grow  so 
despondent  that  —  that  —  well,  that  I  feel  fit 
only  for  the  company  of  Charlotte  Bodenfels. 
I  am  glad  you  snubbed  her  as  you  did.  What 
an  intolerable  woman  she  is,  how  intolerable 
her  kind ! 

But,  my  dear  Odo,  this  brings  me  to  some 
thing  I  wanted  to  say  to  you.  She  wrote  me 
the  other  day,  very  unwarrantably,  of  course, 
of  Margot.  If  for  no  other  reason  than  that 
the  world,  and  at  present  I  mean  by  this  lib 
eral  phrase  only  our  own  little  world  betwixt 
the  heights  of  Ilsenstein  and  the  forest  reaches 
of  Jaromar,  always  listens  to  the  gossip  of  the 
Charlottes  whom  you  and  I  dislike  so  much, 
even  when  it  pretends  to  condemn  and  dis 
credit,  —  if  for  no  other  reason  than  this,  I  do 
think  it  would  be  advisable,  from  every  point 
of  view,  that  your  protigte  should  now  leave 


A   FELLOWE   AND  HIS  WIFE  139 

the  Schloss.  It  would  be  easy  for  you  to  find 
accommodation  for  her.  I  am  sure  that  Parson 
Hiller  and  his  good  wife  would  take  her  in 
and  be  kind  to  her,  till  news  from  her  home 
came,  which,  for  the  girl's  own  sake,  I  trust 
will  be  soon. 

Then,  again,  I  put  it  to  you  frankly  :  is  it  — 
is  it  —  O  Dio  mio,  what  word  is  it  I  want  ?  — 
well,  is  it  quite  seemly  for  Mile.  Borike  to 
settle  down  at  Jaromar  as  if  it  were  to  be  her 
home  forever  ?  Even  dear,  stupid  old  Wal- 
purga  must  see  that  it  is  now  time  her  beloved 
Margot  took  flight  again  —  like  all  other  wind 
blown  things. 

Seriously,  Odo,  I  ask  you  to  consider  and, 
indeed,  to  meet  my  wishes  in  this  matter. 
You  will  do  me  the  justice  to  believe  that  I 
urge  my  plea  in  all  good  faith. 

In  haste,  or  I  shall  miss  the  post, 

ILSE. 

P.  S.  If  Malzahn  and  Freolin  are  with 
you,  and  you  are  expecting  other  men  at  the 
Schloss,  all  the  more  reason  for  doing  at  once 
what  I  now  urgently  beg  of  you. 


XVI 

FROM  THE  COUNT  TO  THE  COUNTESS  VON  JAROMAR. 

Jaromar, 

December  18. 

DEAREST  ILSE  : 

Margot  will  remain.  I  regret  not  to  be 
able  to  meet  your  wishes,  but  the  "  wind 
blown  thing  "  has  taken  root.  As  to  the  ques 
tion  of  propriety,  whether  it  is,  as  you  say, 
"  seemly "  for  her  to  be  here,  I  broke  into 
"  Homeric  laughter "  at  the  inconceivable 
na'ivett  of  this  solicitude  —  for  us  —  on  your 
part.  I  don't  pretend  that  it  was  happy  mirth 
or  lasted  long.  But  pardon  me  for  retorting 
that  your  request  is,  under  existing  circum 
stances,  deliciously  droll,  and  I  should  be  con 
siderably  more  amused  by  it  if  it  -did  not  also 
make  me  sad  —  and  savage. 

Where  was  your  sense  of  humor  wandering 
when  you  wrote  this  letter  ?  Surely  that,  if 
nothing  else,  ought  to  have  prevented  it.  Con- 


A   FELLOWE  AND  HIS  WIFE  141 

sider,  Use.  Shall  there  be  liberty,  equality, 
fraternity,  for  you  and  your  satellites,  and  none 
at  all  for  Margot  and  me  ?  Since  when  has 
so  obsequious  a  regard  for  conventionalities 
dwarfed  your  judgment,  your  courage,  and, 
pardon  me,  your  generosity  ?  And  if  Char 
lotte  Bodenfels  is  the  guardian  of  our  honor 
and  domestic  peace,  our  counselor  and  guide, 
perhaps  it  would  be  instructive  for  you  to 
know  what  tales  she  has  sown  broadcast  over 
the  country,  obtained  from  some  correspon 
dent  in  Rome  who  saw  you  at  the  Hotel 
d' Italia,  and  apparently  concentrates  all  her 
energies  upon  chronicling  your  movements, 
real  and  imaginary.  I  have  not  sullied  your 
ears  with  these  things.  I  did  not  care  enough 
about  them  to  resent  them.  A  beautiful 
woman  alone  must  always  be  a  mystery,  and 
while  envy  traduces  what  she  does,  it  longs 
still  more  to  annihilate  what  she  is,  her  in 
herent  charm,  her  very  existence,  for  therein 
lies  her  real  offense.  There  is  nothing  sur 
prising  in  the  fact  that  they  find  your  ways 
problematic  and  incomprehensible,  and  that 


142  A   FELLOWE  AND  HIS  WIFE 

they  discover  impropriety  in  all  that  you  do, 
in  what  is  good  and  innocent,  as  well  as  in 
that  which  is  equivocal.  For  this  I  am  pre 
pared,  but  scarcely  that  you,  reveling  in  your 
own  "  freedom,"  should  desire  to  restrict  mine. 

Ah,  Use,  recrimination  is  not  good  between 
you  and  me.  No  doubt  I  am,  as  usual,  taking 
things  too  seriously.  You  don't  really  care 
much  about  anything  that  happens  here.  I 
might  as  well  expostulate  with  a  humming 
bird.  Why  should  I  find  fault  when  neither 
my  praise  nor  blame,  my  warnings  nor  en 
treaties  move  you,  and  by  the  time  this  reaches 
you,  you  will  have  completely  forgotten  your 
scruples  about  Margot,  due  indeed  to  but  a 
passing  mood  ?  They  would  never  have  been 
uttered,  I  know,  had  you  had  the  faintest  con 
ception  of  the  real  state  of  affairs. 

You  consciously  and  deliberately  dare  the 
world's  prejudices.  I  have  said,  and  still  say 
—  still,  Use  —  that  you  have  a  right  to  do 
this,  to  seek  your  own,  to  select  your  own  pur 
suits,  to  be  yourself,  to  be  "  free."  But  Mar- 
got  is  different.  If  I  could  command  your 


A   FELLOWE  AND  HIS  WIFE  143 

attention  long  enough,  I  would  try  to  show  you 
how.  She  has  no  theories,  no  aims,  no  long 
ing  for  liberty.  She  is  so  simple  that  it  does 
not  even  occur  to  her  that  she  has  not  freedom 
enough.  She  does  not  defy  or  dare  anything. 
She  is  an  old-fashioned  girl,  a  home-child. 
Fate  deprived  her  of  one  home  and  gave  her 
another.  It  would  be  a  dastardly  thing  to 
turn  her  off  because  old  fools  like  to  chatter. 
The  sea  gave  her  to  me.  That  night  I  seized 
her  myself  and  dragged  her  into  the  boat,  and 
afterwards,  when  we  found  that  there  was  life 
in  her  still,  Malte  and  I  drew  the  little  thing 
away  from  her  dead  father  and  mother,  and 
brought  her  up  here,  and  I  carried  her  in  my 
arms  across  my  threshold. 

And  here  she  shall  stay  as  long  as  she  likes. 
Not  even  for  you  will  I  send  her  away,  and 
whoever  harms  her  has  to  reckon  with  me. 
But  be  very  sure,  nobody  will  harm  her.  That 
she  is  a  lovely  girl,  seventeen  years  old,  I  and 
others  having  eyes  perceive  ;  but  also  that  she 
claims  in  a  peculiarly  sacred  way  the  protec 
tion  of  my  house. 


144  A   FELLOWE   AND  HIS  WIFE 

In  the  village,  where  the  little  "  Ma'm'selle  " 
is  as  welcome  as  sunshine ;  among  my  guests, 
who  only  see  her  flitting  by,  but  accord  to  her 
the  deference  due  to  a  daughter  of  the  house, 
no  one  is  so  careless  as  to  forget  under  what 
circumstances  she  was  tossed  upon  our  shores. 
And,  Use,  dearest,  this  you  will  have  to  con 
cede,  it  is  not  Margot's  fault,  or  mine,  that 
there  is  no  chaperon  for  her  here.  It  would 
break  her  heart  to  know  you  wished  to  send  her 
away,  for  she  worships  you.  She  contemplates 
your  picture  with  mute  and  tender  adoration, 
such  as  she  gives  her  own  Sainte  Marguerite. 
Every  day  she  brings  you  offerings  of  fresh 
flowers,  and  I  suspect  she  says  her  prayers  to 
you.  Poor  little  benighted  girl,  how  can  she  ! 

ODO. 


XVII 

FROM   THE   COUNTESS   TO   COUNT   VON    JAROMAR. 

Palazzo  Malaspina, 

December  22. 

DEAR  ODO : 

My  plans  for  Christmas  are  all  changed. 
Cesare  Mallerini's  brother,  Egidio,  is  coming 
from  Paris  with  his  French  wife,  and  il  Conte 
is  going  to  keep  open  house  at  his  villa  near 
I'Ariccia,  between  Albano  and  Nemi,  in  the 
Albans.  It  is  an  unusual  thing  for  an  Italian 
to  do  ;  but  it  will  be  interesting.  The  Rb'h- 
richs  are  going  for  a  week,  and  I  with  them. 
I  believe  that  Herwegh  will  be  the  only  other 
foreigner.  We  leave  Rome  to-morrow.  I  can 
not  imagine  Christmas  in  the  Villa  Malle- 
rini.  Fancy  Count  Cesare  as  a  convivial  host ! 
Nevertheless,  I  am  looking  forward  to  the 
visit  with  eager  curiosity  ;  even  the  Rohrichs 
are  curious. 

Lebewohl,     my    friend,    a    hundred    happy 


146  A   FELLOWE  AND  HIS  WIFE 


Christmases  to  you  ;  I  am  too  busy  to  write 
more  just  now  ;  forgive  so  brief  a  note  ;  I  kiss 
my  love  to  Jaromar. 

In  great  haste, 

Your  busy  and  excited 

ILSE  VON  ILDENDTEIN  JAROMAR. 

P.  S.  If  you  write  to  me  a  day  or  two  after 
Christmas,  address  your  letter  to  La  Contessa 
Use  von  Jaromar,  Villa  Mallerini,  1'Ariccia, 
per  Albano. 


XVIII 


FROM  THE  SAME  TO  THE  SAME. 

Villa  Mallerini, 

Christmas  Morning. 

Noel,  Noel, 

Belle  Louise  ! 
C'est  moi, 

Belle  Louise  ! 
Sst!  SstJ 
Dans  le  pare, 
Par  le  lac, 
Sur  les  pr£s, 

Siffle  la  brise ! 
Pfiss—pfiss! 
Fiss  —  Fiss  / 
Au  ciel 

La  —  ra  —  la  / 
Aux  montagnes 
Ha,  Ha,  Ha, 
Chant  la  brise  ! 


"  Ou  sont  les  neiges, 

Belle  Louise  ? 
Voyez  ma  tete, 

Belle  Louise, 


148  A   FELLOWE  AND  HIS  WIFE 

Ha!    Ha!    Ha! 
Car  c'est  moi, 

Belle  Louise, 
Car  c'est  moi, 
C'est  Noel !  " 

It  was  so  lovely,  this  morning,  that  away  I 
went  before  breakfast,  and  literally  danced 
down  the  solemn  ilex  avenue  that  leads  from 
the  house  to  the  terrace  on  the  higher  ground 
called  the  Buonavista.  And,  oh,  what  a  view  ! 
I  saw  all  the  Campagna  bathed  in  living  blue 
light,  delicate  beyond  words,,  and  purple  only 
where  the  Maremma  lay  leagues  long  against 
the  sea.  The  latter  was  quite  visible,  a  waver 
ing,  dilating,  contracting,  receding,  advancing 
band,  of  the  most  extraordinarily  vivid  and 
brilliant  pale-green.  I  am  sure  that  nowhere 
else  in  the  world  did  any  one  see  a  lovelier 
Christmas  morning.  It  was  so  warm  and 
bright,  too.  Over  a  mass  of  the  beautiful  pink 
and  white  Fiori  di  Natale  a  great  yellow  and 
orange  tiger-moth  tried  to  pass  itself  off  as 
a  butterfly.  I  chased  it  for  a  dozen  yards  or 
more,  and  then  it  gave  a  scornful  tilt  to  its 


A   FELLOWE   AND   HIS  WIFE  149 

wings,  and  swung  upward  into  the  shadow  of 
a  great  stone-pine.  Then  I  went  and  looked 
over  the  terrace  wall,  beyond  which  runs  one 
of  the  many  charcoal-burners'  paths  that  inter 
sect  all  the  woodlands  hereabout.  A  muleteer 
was  passing,  with  his  four-footed  companion 
stalking  along  beneath  what  seemed  to  me  a 
ridiculously  impossible  load  of  fagots,  which 
literally  let  only  the  head  and  wriggly,  hairless 
tail  be  visible.  I  could  not  help  calling  out, 
"  Buori  giorno,  signore  /  "  "  Fa  bel  tempo  /" 
The  roguish  fellow  gave  me  greeting  for  greet 
ing,  and  then  suddenly  burst  into  a  wild  song, 
which,  so  far  as  I  could  make  out,  consisted  of 
endless  Stellas  and  bellas,  and  carissimas  and 
benissimas.  But  when  the  rascal  plumped  on 
his  knees  and  kissed  both  his  hands  frantically, 
and  called  upon  me  by  all  the  saints  in  heaven 
to  have  pity  on  him,  for  all  the  world  like  the 
melodramatic  tenore  in  that  ridiculous  opera 
we  saw  together  in  Berlin,  I  could  no  longer 
restrain  my  laughter,  but  shrank  behind  the 
terrace  literally  convulsed.  Then  suddenly  — 
no,  Odo,  no  hairbreadth  escape,  no  startling 


150  A   PEL  LOWE   AND  HIS  WIFE 

episode,  but  simply  your  very  earthly  -and 
commonplace  Use  became  most  unromantically 
hungry !  I  tried  hard  to  look  across  that 
glorious  Campagna,  with  all  its  innumerable 
hollows  brimming  over  with  pale  blue  mist, 
and  to  think  of  the  Fatherland  far  away  be 
yond  the  unseen  Apennines,  and  of  distant 
Jaromar,  and  of  you,  and  to  imagine  that  I 
heard  the  bells  ringing,  and  all  the  villagers 
and  fisherfolk  hurrying  to  hear  good  Pastor 
Hiller  say  again  just  the  same  things  he  said 
last  year,  and  for  thirty  odd  years  before,  and 
—  and  —  of  everything,  but,  alas  !  the  flesh 
prevailed  ! 

So  ignominiously  I  fled  back,  singing  as  I 
went  my  blithe  French  song,  the  words  and 
gay  tripping  tune  of  which  I  picked  up  lately  ; 
I  scarce  know  how.  Perhaps  you  can  guess 
the  time  if  you  read  the  nonsensical  linelets 
quickly  and  lightly.  I  had  just  sung  out  (and, 
I  'm  ashamed  to  say,  at  the  pitch  of  my  voice) : 

"Ha!  Ha!  Ha! 
Car  c'est  moi, 
Belle  Louise, 


A   PEL  LOWE  AND   HIS  WIFE  151 

Car  c'est  moi, 

C'est  Noel ! " 

when  I  came  full  tilt  upon  two  sombre-looking, 
scandalized  priests,  or  rather  one  of  them  was 
a  bare-footed,  unkempt,  cowled  Franciscan 
monk.  They  positively  scowled  upon  me,  as 
though  they  were  a  couple  of  heaven-rewarded 
St.  Anthonys,  and  I  were  the  reprehensible 
siren  who  had  almost  caused  them  to  fall  into 
backsliding,  and  the  consequent  pit  !  At  the 
first  glance  I  did  not  see  that  Cesare  Mallerini 
was  with  them.  What  an  ungracious  fellow 
he  is !  He  bowed  coldly  in  response  to  my 
salutation,  and  when  I  laughingly  added  some 
thing  about  Christmas,  he  gave  a  sidelong 
glance  at  his  priestly  companions,  and  very 
rudely  muttered  that  in  Italy  il  giorno  di  Na- 
tale  was  a  day  for  religion,  and  not  for  keeping 
carnival.  I  like  him  less  and  less,  I  admit. 
Even  when  he  is  most  polite,  there  is  a  cruel 
look  in  his  eyes,  a  sneer  on  his  lips. 

Well,  Christmas  morning  at  any  rate  has 
gone  happily.  I  have  had  my  breath  of  fresh 
air,  my  breakfast,  and  my  conscience  is  clear 


152  A   FELLOWE  AND  HIS  WIFE 

in  having  written  this  letter  to  you.  We  are 
now  going  for  a  drive  over  to  Castel  Gandolfo 
and  Merino,  and  back  by  the  low  road  to  Cec- 
china,  and  thence  home  again  by  Genzano. 
It  will  be  charming.  You  can  think  of  me 
singing  my  little  De  Musset  song  that  my 
friends  here  like  so  much,  even  if  you  do  pre 
fer  Horace  ! 

"Le  remade 

Au  mdlancolique 

C'est  la  musique 

Et  la  beaut^  !  " 

And  Herwegh  is  to  bring  his  guitar,  and  has 
promised  to  sing  canzoni  and  rispetti  of  every 
province  in  Italy,  with  all  the  peculiar  words 
and  accents,  Venetian,  Tuscan,  Sicilian,  Ca- 
labrian,  and  so  forth.  You  would  smile  if  you 
saw  the  turn-out ;  the  carriage  is  an  ancient 
chaise-de-luxe,  and  one  of  the  two  horses  is  a 
rusty  black,  while  the  other  is  a  piebald  !  Oh, 
dear  me,  is  it  wicked  to  laugh  at  things  as 
I  do  ? 

But  I   leave  this  open  in   case  the  Roman 
post  comes  in  before  we  go  out  for  our  drive. 


XIX 

FROM  THE  SAME  TO  THE  SAME. 

Villa  Mallerini,  VAricda, 

December  26. 

MY  DEAR  ODO  : 

What  a  wild  night  it  is  !  I  can  easily  ima 
gine  myself  at  Jaromar,  or  by  the  forlornest 
shores  of  our  native  north.  The  wind  that 
sweeps  howling  up  from  the  Campagna  might 
be  that  which  hurls  its  sleet  against  the  win 
dows  of  our  Schloss.  I  am  so  restless.  I  can 
not  sleep  ;  I  cannot  read  ;  I  doubt  if  I  can 
even  write  long.  What  a  melancholy  place  this 
is !  It  is  difficult  to  believe  that  I  am  in  Italy. 
Christmas  day  was  so  gloriously  bright  and 
warm  ;  I  even  heard  an  unwary  thrush  trying 
over  one  of  its  lost  April  songs.  Poor  thing, 
it  failed  miserably.  What  did  it  think  to-day, 
I  wonder,  when  the  sky  grew  gray  and  then 
sooty-brown,  and  a  chill  sighing  wind  moaned 
up  from  the  Maremma  !  I  wish  you  were  here, 


154  A   FELLOWE   AND  HIS  WIFE 

Odo.  Everything  seems  to  have  gone  wrong 
to-day.  After  dinner,  the  violence  of  the  gale 
was  so  great  that  we  all  instinctively  spoke  in 
lowered  tones.  The  only  person  who  affected 
cheerfulness  was  Herwegh,  but  I  must  say  he 
did  not  succeed.  Even  his  good  spirits  were 
damped  after  a  while  ;  to  my  relief,  for  he  did 
not  seem  himself.  It  was  a  horrid  meal. 
Lilien  Rorich  had  her  dinner  in  her  own 
apartment,  as  she  had  a  headache,  and  her 
husband  was  absent,  having  gone  to  Rome  for 
the  night.  The  other  Christmas  guests  have 
left.  At  the  table  there  were  only  our  two 
hosts,  Egidio  Mallerini  and  his  wife  Aurore, 
Herwegh  and  myself.  Long  before  the  meal 
was  over  we  had  subsided  into  complete  si 
lence.  Cesare  Mallerini  stared  straight  before 
him,  a  stony  glitter  in  his  eyes.  Lucrezia  sat 
back,  even  more  frozen,  if  possible.  I  could 
not  see  her  eyes,  as  she  never  raised  them,  or 
only  so  swiftly  that  they  evaded  my  searching 
glance.  Egidio  and  his  wife  were  as  impas 
sive  as  practicable  without  obtrusive  rudeness. 
As  for  Herwegh,  after  his  collapse  he  was  as 


A   FELLOWE   AND  HIS  WIFE  155 

reticent  as  the  rest  of  us.  Unfortunately,  we 
were  at  opposite  sides  of  the  table,  and  so 
could  do  nothing  to  relieve  the  strain.  It  was 
scarce  better  when  we  were  in  the  salon.  I 
was  asked  to  sing,  but  had  not  the  spirit  for  it. 
Lucrezia  chillily  declined.  Madame  Aurore 
indulged  us  with  some  Parisian  school-girl 
music,  for  all  the  world  like  a  company  of 
bats  shrilling  and  gibbering.  She  tortured 
these  poor  high  notes  till  —  but  there,  never 
mind  her ;  I  dare  say  she  pleased  Signor  Egi- 
dio.  I  wonder  what  is  the  matter.  Perhaps 
the  brothers  have  fallen  out  —  or  their  wives. 
Perhaps  it  is  all  due  to  a  matrimonial  quarrel. 
Perhaps  Cesare  and  Herwegh  have  begun 
hostilities.  What  makes  me  think  that  this 
guess  may  be  near  the  mark  is  that  he  (Her 
wegh)  did  not  speak  to  his  hostess  after  we 
went  into  the  drawing-room.  Yet  her  eyes 
have  watched  him  like  a  cat's  !  Altogether, 
this  is  a  fitting  end  to  a  wretched  evening.  I 
meant  to  write  you  a  long  letter  about  our 
Christmas  doings,  but  I  find  myself  quite  un 
able.  We  had,  however,  ample  entertainment, 


156  A  FELLOWE   AND  HIS  WIFE 

though  it  is  only  fair  to  Herwegh  to  add  that 
without  him  we  should  have  found  the  hours, 
particularly  in  the  afternoon  and  evening, 
somewhat  heavy.  It  would  be  absurd  to  term 
either  of  the  Mallerinis  genial,  but  they  were 
courteously  agreeable.  My  hostess  even  went 
so  far  as  to  call  me  Use  (which  she  pronounces 
deliberately),  and  to  ask  me  to  address  her  as 
Lucrezia.  But  I  've  forgotten  all  about  Christ 
mas  by  this  time,  and  can  think  only  of  this 
forbidding  day,  this  sullen  evening,  this  dreary 
eerie  night,  which  makes  me  so  nervous.  I 
wonder  if  it  is  another  such  night  with  you. 
I  wish  Jaromar  were  not  so  far  away.  I  feel 
more  alone  to-night  than  I  have  ever  done  in 
my  life.  I  wonder  if  I  were  to  call  you,  Odo, 
would  you  come  to  me  ?  If  I  were  to  ... 

P.  S. 

Palazzo  Malaspina,  Rome, 

December  27. 

You  will,  to  your  amazement,  see  by  this 
P.  S.  that  I  am  at  home  again  !  I  was  just 
about  to  tear  up  the  foregoing  unfinished  letter, 
but  I  leave  it  as  it  is.  It  will  help  to  explain. 


A   FELLOWE  AND  HIS  WIFE  157 

Read  the  last  sentence  of  it  again,  and  then 
imagine  me  dropping  my  pen  in  sudden  sick 
ening  affright,  and  calling  out  I  know  not 
what !  For  just  as  I  was  wondering  idly  if 
you  would  come  at  my  summons,  I  looked  up. 
The  door  had  silently  opened,  and  a  tall  white 
figure  stood  in  the  semi-darkness.  But  though 
an  indescribable  fear  possessed  me  for  a  mo 
ment,  I  saw  at  a  glance  that  it  was  Lucrezia 
Mallerini.  Yet  I  was  almost  as  unnerved 
when  I  recognized  that  woman  as  when  I 
thought  for  the  breath  of  a  second,  that  my 
prayer  had  been  answered  by  the  dead.  She 
had  a  most  evil  look  on  her  face.  It  was 
deadly  pale,  and  her  eyes  were  like  luminous 
jet.  At  last  I  rose  very  slowly,  and  then, 
having  regained  my  control,  spoke.  "Well, 
Contessa,  do  you  wish  to  speak  to  me  ?  I  did 
not  hear  you  knock."  She  did  not  answer, 
but  stood  looking  fixedly  at  me,  and  then  let 
her  gaze  wander  round  and  round  the  room. 
At  last  she  moved.  Having  closed  my  door, 
she  crossed  to  that  of  the  dressing-room,  and 
raised  a  small  lamp  from  a  side-table  so  as  to 


158  A   FELLOWE  AND  HIS  WIFE 

examine  the  interior.  Naturally,  I  concluded 
that  she  was  suspicious  of  eaves-droppers, 
though  I  was  quite  unable  to  guess  what  she 
wanted  to  confide  to  me.  The  rain  slapped 
the  window  panes  viciously,  and  in  every  hole 
and  corner  of  that  old  house  the  wind  howled 
or  shrieked  or  moaned.  Her  first  words,  ut 
tered  in  a  savagely  ironical  tone,  startled  me. 
"  When  are  you  going  back  to  Rome  ?  To 
night?"  I  admit  that  I  at  once  jumped  to 
the  conclusion  she  was  mad,  yet  as  she  had 
no  appearance  of  frenzy,  I  had  no  other  course 
than  to  treat  her  as  though  she  were  not. 
"  If  you  wish  to  be  relieved  of  my  company, 
Contessa  Mallerini,"  I  exclaimed,  "you  may 
be  sure  that  I  will  not  long  inconvenience 
you.  But,  obviously,  I  can  scarce  leave  this 
solitary  place  on  such  a  night  as  this." 
Strangely  enough,  my  answer  seemed  to  suit 
her.  Her  tense  look  relaxed  somewhat,  and 
she  even  made  a  slightly  deprecating  motion 
with  her  right  hand.  "Excuse  me,"  was,  how 
ever,  all  she  said,  and  in  a  cold,  formal  way. 
I  waited,  at  first  patiently,  and  then  impatiently. 


A   FELLOWE  AND  HIS  WIFE  159 

The  wind  had  a  wail  in  it  that  made  me  shiver, 
and  I  felt  as  though  the  very  stones  of  the  wall 
must  be  soaked  with  the  steady  slush-slush  of 
the  rain.  "  Did  you  hear  the  noise  ?  "  she  asked 
me  suddenly.  "What  noise?"  I  demanded, 
listening  intently,  and  startled  by  her  question. 
"  The  shots,  half  an  hour  ago."  "  Shots  !  no, 
I  heard  none.  If  there  were  any,  I  should  not 
have  recognized  them  in  this  wild  night." 
After  that,  another  prolonged  silence.  I  began 
to  understand.  Lucrezia  was  hysterically  ner 
vous  ;  there  was  no  doubt  of  it ;  she  had  been 
upset  by  the  savage  and  unwonted  violence  of 
the  gale.  "  I  am  going  to  bed,"  I  said,  gently  ; 
"  do  you  not  think  you  would  be  wise  to  do  the 
same  ?  "  "  Yes,  Signora,  if  you  will  permit  me 
to  rest  here,"  was  her  reply,  in  a  strange  voice 
and  with  a  stranger  parody  of  a  smile.  I 
pressed  her  to  occupy  my  bed,  but  she  refused. 
All  she  wanted  was  to  sit  in  my  large  arm 
chair.  It  was  impossible  for  her,  she  said,  to 
sleep  during  that  tempest,  and  she  felt  better 
beside  me,  but  she  would  feel  still  better  if  I 
were  to  go  to  bed  and  to  sleep.  At  last  I  did 


I6O  A   FELLOWE   AND  HIS  WIFE 

lie  down,  though,  not  unnaturally,  sleep,  for  all 
my  weariness,  would  not  come  to  me.  After 
an  hour  or  so  I  was,  however,  just  about  to 
doze  off  when,  through  my  almost  closed  lids, 
I  caught  sight  of  Lucrezia  rising  from  her 
chair.  She  stealthily  moved  my  letter  to  you 
till  it  was  within  the  faint  illumination  from 
the  corridor  lamp,  and  then  I  saw  her  turn  it 
over  and  read  the  beginning.  I  was  so  indig 
nant  that  I  almost  sprang  from  my  bed  ;  then 
I  nearly  laughed  at  her  chagrin,  for  she  knows 
little  or  no  German.  But  when  she  replaced 
my  letter,  she  did  not  seem  chagrined,  only 
weary,  and  strained,  and  curiously  intent.  It 
must  have  been  nearly  an  hour  later  when  she 
suddenly  rose  again.  This  time  she  went  to 
the  window,  and  crouched  behind  the  curtain. 
My  heart  beat,  for  I  thought  she  must  be  mad. 
I  knew  that  she  was  listening  with  all  her 
nerves  alive.  But  there  was  nothing,  save  the 
rising  and  falling  wail  of  the  wind,  and  the 
sudden  flurry  of  sleety  rain.  I  saw  her  lean 
forward  and  peer  so  intently  that  at  last  she 
almost  touched  the  glass  of  the  window.  To 


A   FELLOWE  AND  HIS  WIFE  l6l 

my  relief,  after  some  minutes,  she  went  back 
to  her  chair.  I  fancied  she  had  fallen  asleep 
at  last,  when  I  heard  a  sob.  But  as  absolute 
silence  followed,  I  .thought  it  best  to  take  no 
notice.  I  must  have  dozed  shortly  after,  for 
when  I  sat  up  with  a  start  I  saw  she  was  no 
longer  in  the  room.  It  was  close  on  dawn 
when  she  returned.  With  the  first  dull  gleam 
of  day  the  wind  abruptly  ceased.  I  heard  the 
rain  still,  but  it  was  softly  incessant,  and  had 
that  trickling  sound  I  used  to  get  so  weary  of 
when  it  dripped  among  the  lilacs  under  my 
window  at  Ilsenstein.  I  never  can  understand 
why  people  lie  objectlessly.  When  Lucrezia 
rose  once  more  she  noticed  that  I  was  awake. 
"  I  am  glad  the  storm  is  over,  my  friend,"  she 
began  hesitatingly,  and  added,  "  but  I  have 
slept  well,  thanks  to  you.  I  dropped  off  to 
sleep  as  soon  as  you  did,  and  it  seems  scarce 
five  minutes  ago."  I  felt  contemptuous  as 
well  as  angry,  and  made  no  effort  to  detain 
her.  The  night  she  passed  certainly  did  not 
improve  her.  She  looked  wretchedly  wan. 
That  ivory  skin  of  hers  was  quite  yellow,  and 


1 62  A   FELLOWE  AND  HIS  WIFE 

her  dull  black  eyes  were  as  lack-lustre  as 
sodden  coal.  Well,  I  dressed  rapidly,  and  ere 
long  was  ready  for  breakfast.  When  it  was 
brought  to  me,  I  found  Ermerilda,  the  maid, 
exasperatingly  reticent ;  but  what  I  did  gather 
made  me  decide  to  leave  for  Rome  as  soon  as 
I  decently  could.  It  appeared  that  there  was 
an  accident  last  night.  I  could  not  under 
stand  Ermerilda's  rapid  and  complicated  ex 
planations,  and  she  simply  would  not,  or  could 
not,  give  me  a  direct  answer.  Count  Cesare 
had  been  hurt,  and  was  now  seriously  unwell, 
and  in  high  fever.  The  Contessa  was  too 
distressed  to  appear,  and  wished  to  see  no  one. 
Signora,  the  other  Contessa,  was  in  bed  ;  il 
Conte  Egidio  was  with  his  brother.  Signor 
Herwegh  ?  Oh,  il  signor  scultore  had  —  well, 
I  really  could  make  nothing  out  of  that  stupid 
Ermerilda  ;  the  only  approach  to  information  I 
could  educe  was  that  Herwegh,  notwithstand 
ing  the  fury  of  the  tempest,  had  left  the  villa 
at  midnight,  and  had  returned  to  Rome.  The 
girl  was  such  a  fool,  or  perhaps  only  pretended 
to  be  one,  —  and  Italian  servants  are  so  exas- 


A   FELLOWE   AND  HIS  WIFE  163 

peratingly  secretive,  —  that  I  fully  expected  to 
encounter  him  in  the  salon  when  I  went  down 
stairs.  I  did  n't  however.  Frau  Rohrich  I 
found  in  the  most  blissful  ignorance  of  every 
thing.  She  asked  if  we  had  had  another  de 
lightful  evening.  I  briefly  explained  why  we 
had  to  leave  at  once  ;  and,  to  be  succinct,  thus 
it  is  that  I  am  at  the  Palazzo  Malaspina  again. 
I  am  too  tired,  and  indeed  too  overwrought,  to 
write  any  more  just  now.  Of  course,  now, 
any  letter  will  reach  me  after  a  tiresome  delay, 
as  it  will  have  to  be  forwarded  from  1'Ariccia. 
Addio,  dear  Odo. 

ILSE. 


XX 

FROM   THE   COUNT  TO  THE  COUNTESS  VON   JAROMAR. 

Schloss  Jaromar, 

January  g. 

COULD  I  hope  to  find  anything  here  for 
which  you  still  retain  the  faintest  interest,  dear 
Use,  I  would  gladly  write  about  it,  but  if  you 
were  in  the  planet  Mars  there  would  hardly 
be  less  sympathy  between  us.  We  seem  to 
breathe  different  atmospheres,  speak  different 
tongues,  and,  worst  of  all,  think  different 
thoughts.  This  is  not  complaint  or  reproach, 
but  merely  a  temperate  statement  of  facts. 
Your  letters  from  the  Villa  Mallerini  have 
come,  and  have  produced,  believe  me,  suffi 
cient  effect.  I  did  not  attempt  to  answer 
promptly,  and  I  refrain  now  from  superfluous 
and  unwelcome  comment,  for  I  confess  I  don't 
understand  your  movements.  I  don't  know 
what  you  are  doing,  what  you  want  of  those 
people,  what  you  really  think  of  them,  what 


A   FELLOWE  AND  HIS  WIFE  1 6$ 

you  perceive,  or  what  you  choose  not  to 
perceive.  I  have  already  given  my  views 
succinctly,  and  if  they  did  not  convince  you, 
reiteration  certainly  will  not.  I  may  be  in  a 
bemuddled  condition  —  groping  in  a  dense  fog, 
but  I  cannot  think  it.  So  I  suppose  I  shall 
have  to  wait  till  you  run  your  course,  and  stop 
of  your  own  accord  ;  and,  meanwhile,  general 
topics  are  safest. 

Our  Christmas  festivities  have  given  most 
of  us,  I  trust,  bright  and  happy  days.  Margot's 
amazement  was  boundless,  as  she  had  never 
even  imagined  a  German  Christmas,  and  was 
whirled  breathlessly  from  one  tree  to  another  : 
ours  on  Christmas  Eve  ;  your  mamma's  at 
Ilsenstein,  Christmas  night ;  the  school-chil 
dren's,  the  twenty-sixth  ;  the  Club's,  the  twen 
ty-seventh;  Baroness  Freolin's,  the  twenty- 
eighth  ;  Parson  Killer's,  the  twenty-ninth ;  and 
several  small  ones  where  we  looked  in  for  half 
an  hour  or  so. 

Batheldis  von  Freolin  and  Margot  have  be 
come  close  friends.  Batheldis  comes  here  con 
stantly,  and  they  drive,  ride,  read,  sing,  and 


1 66  A   PEL  LOWE  AND  HIS  WIFE 

take  long  walks  together.  The  baroness,  be 
ing  in  the  main  a  sensible,  liberal  woman,  is 
pleased,  as  she  ought  to  be,  that  her  daughter 
has  found  so  lovable  a  companion.  But 
whether,  in  case  her  son  and  idol  should  seri 
ously  attempt  to  secure  the  lovable  com 
panion  for  himself,  she  would  be  equally  free 
from  social  prejudice,  I  am  by  no  means  sure. 
So  I  keep  Freolin  out  of  Margot's  way,  and 
experience  all  the  anxiety  of  a  prudent  mamma, 
who  spies  an  ineligible  youth  looming  signifi 
cantly  upon  her  horizon.  Freolin's  phenome 
nal  silence  gives  rise  to  the  novel  apprehension 
that  he  may  actually  be  thinking.  He's  a 
good  fellow,  and  I  am  as  fond  of  him  as  if  he 
were  my  brother,  but  he  's  been,  so  far,  awfully 
gay  —  like  most  of  us,  I  suppose  —  and  Margot 
is  so  young.  Why  should  she  begin  to  have 
heart-aches  ?  Besides,  I  am  in  no  haste  to  part 
with  her.  Later  —  who  knows  ?  Of  course,  I 
am  not  really  attempting  to  regulate  other  peo 
ple's  heart  affairs,  but  I  am  convinced  merry, 
wholesome  Batheldis  is  a  better  influence  than 
her  brother  just  at  present  for  Margot,  whose 


A   FELLOWE    AND   HIS  WIFE  l6/ 

sorrow  is  still  fresh  and  keen.  Of  this  I  am 
sure,  Freolin  will  not  advance  a  step  in  her 
direction  without  first  talking  with  me.  He 
cannot  help  his  eloquent  eyes,  poor  fellow, 
but  she  seems  utterly  unconscious  of  them 
thus  far,  and  sees  them  rarely,  I  flatter  my 
self. 

Christmas  Eve  I  missed  her,  and  found  her 
alone,  out  on  the  terrace  in  the  moonlight. 

"  What  are  you  doing  out  here  in  the  cold, 
Margot  ?  "  I  asked.  "  It 's  better  sport  to  be 
moonstruck  in  June." 

"  I  'm  only  listening  to  the  waves,"  she  re 
plied  quite  brightly  ;  but  as  we  passed  into  my 
study  it  seemed  to  me  there  were  tears  in  her 
eyes. 

"  Child,  child,  you  must  not  be  sad  on 
Christmas  Eve,"  I  said  ;  "  that  is  forbidden  by 
Act  of  Parliament." 

"  I  'm  not  ;  at  least,  I  am  only  happy-sad." 

"  Happy-sad  ?  " 

"  Because  it  is  all  so  beautiful,  and  every 
body  is  so  kind  to  me,  and  my  heart  is  so  full, 
I  had  to  run  away  and  talk  to  —  them." 


1 68  A   FELLOWE  AND  HIS  WIFE 

I  said  nothing.     Presently  she  went  on  : 

"  It  is  strange  the  waves  took  them  from 
me,  yet  I  always  feel  nearer  them  when  the 
breakers  fall  loudest.  But  now  I  will  go  back 
to  the  others  and  be  bright." 

She  smiled  bravely  and  suddenly  added  : 

"  You  must  not  be  sad  either,  Count  Odo." 

"  I  ?  "  I  returned,  honestly  surprised.  "  I 
flattered  myself  I  had  been  conspicuously 
jolly." 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  Oh,  no,"  she  said,  simply. 

I  stared  at  her  in  silence.  What,  indeed, 
could  I  say  ? 

She  turned  quickly,  holding  out  both  hands 
to  me  with  a  warm  and  lovely  impulse. 

"  You  ought  to  be  happy,  you  do  so  much 
good,  you  make  so  many  people  happier  than 
they  possibly  could  be  without  you.  Then  to 
night,  can  you  not  be  glad  thinking  how  beau 
tiful  it  will  be  next  Christmas  when  Countess 
Use  is  here  ?  She  is  far  away,  but  it  is  not  as 
if  she  were  in  another  world,  not  as  if  she  were 
never  coming  home  and  you  could  never  hear 


A   PEL  LOWE   AND  HIS  WIFE  169 

her  voice  again.  Can  you  not  be  a  little  glad, 
Count  Odo  ? "  she  pleaded. 

"  You  are  a  good  girl,  Margot,"  I  exclaimed, 
"  and  we  are  stanch  friends,  are  we  not  ? 
Now,  since  we  have  so  many  invulnerable 
reasons  for  being  happy,  let  us  go  back  and 
enjoy  ourselves  as  hard  as  we  can,  and  don't 
trouble  your  little  head  about  me  —  I'm  all 
right."  But  it  touched  me  nevertheless  —  the 
child's  generous  thought  of  me,  even  in  her 
tender  communion  with  her  lost  ones. 

If  her  attempt  at  consolation  was  childlike, 
it  was  by  no  means  ineffectual.  I  felt  grateful 
for  her  goodness,  her  girlish  frankness,  and 
the  hopefulness  in  her  fresh  voice.  It  did  me 
a  world  of  good  to  hear  her  speak  your  name 
freely  and  naturally,  and  allude  to  your  return 
as  a  positive  certainty.  I  was  hungering  for 
this,  yet  it  is  my  own  fault  that  nobody  men 
tions  you  now.  I  have  persistently  discour 
aged  all  allusions  to  you,  innocent  and  friendly 
ones  as  well  as  malicious.  The  truth  is,  some 
times  I  cannot  speak  of  you,  sometimes  I  will 
not,  sometimes  I  could  shout  "  Use  "  from  the 


A    FELLOWE   AND   HIS   WIFE 


cliffs,  and  bless  any  wanderer  on  the  road  if  he 
would  let  me  buttonhole  him  and  talk  about 
you  for  hours.  And  then  I  am  furious  with 
my  fellow-creatures  for  not  detecting  and  ad 
justing  themselves  nicely  to  my  conflicting 
moods.  I  certainly  do  not  hang  my  head  and 
wear  a  rueful  countenance ;  still  Margot  is  not 
dull ;  she  felt  my  loneliness,  and  was  good 
enough  to  care,  and  —  but  this  is  distinctly 
not  a  general  topic. 

The  Club  Christmas  tree  was  an  ingratiat 
ing  way  of  opening  our  new  Club  House,  since 
our  people  are  best  reached  through  their 
children.  I  concluded  to  call  it  "Club"  be 
cause  the  name  is  harmless  and  social,  and 
conceals  no  philanthropic  sting,  whereas  our 
stiff-necked  villagers  could  never  be  inveigled 
into  a  "  Home  "  of  any  kind,  or  even  a  "  Peo 
ple's  Pavilion."  It  is  a  very  good  building, 
simple,  solid,  spacious,  warm,  and  light,  with  a 
reading-room,  sitting-rooms,  directors'  and  com 
mittee  rooms,  study  and  play  rooms  for  the 
children,  a  supper-room,  and  a  hall  for  music, 
lectures,  and  assemblies  of  all  kinds.  It  has 


A    PEL  LOWE   AND   HIS  WIFE  I /I 

not  grown  by  magic,  but  has  cost  me  much 
time,  money,  annoyance,  and  perplexity  ;  the 
latter  chiefly  because  the  feeling  in  the  village 
has  been  sullenly  inimical  to  the  undertaking 
from  the  first.  However,  I  think  I  Ve  got 
the  thing  in  running  order  now.  After  the 
gifts  had  been  distributed,  the  children's  songs 
sung,  and  coffee,  cake,  and  sandwiches  offered, 
it  seemed  to  me  the  chilling  reserve  of  the 
village  fathers  ought  to  be  somewhat  melted 
and  therefore  the  fatal  moment  was  come.  I 
mounted  the  platform,  feeling  like  a  malefactor 
ascending  the  scaffold,  for  there  is  nothing 
more  embarrassing  than  a  good  deed  that 
won't  strike  fire.  I  simply  said  that  I  had  for 
a  long  time  desired  to  make  some  return  for 
kindness  which  I  had  received  from  them, 
for  much  helpfulness,  and  countless  proofs  of 
confidence  and  attachment,  and  that  I  begged 
them  to  accept  the  Club  House  as  my  Christ 
mas  gift  to  them,  their  wives,  and  children. 
At  this  point  my  oration  came  to  an  abrupt 
close.  I  had  planned  various  edifying  things 
to  say,  but,  confronted  by  that  row  of  men's 


1 72  A   FELLOWE  AND  HIS   WIFE 

faces  as  expressionless  as  a  stone  wall,  I 
stopped  short.  Responding  to  a  toast  at  a 
Kaiser  banquet  has  never  been  difficult  for  me, 
but  before  these  imperturbable  old  sea-dogs, 
I  began  to  suspect  what  stage-fright  means. 
They  stared  at  me  as  uncompromisingly  as  if 
I  were  insulting  them,  and  I,  for  an  instant, 
wished  that  the  earth  would  open  and  swallow 
my  Club  House  and  all  my  ill-judged  under 
takings.  Then  occurred  one  of  those  por 
tentous  trifles  which  decide  the  fate  of  battles 
and  innovations.  A  five-year-old  Kruse  boy, 
ecstatic  possessor  of  a  toy  donkey,  shouted  one 
shrill  "  Hurrah  !  "  whether  dedicated  to  me  or 
to  his  long-eared  friend  I  have  no  means  of 
determining,  but  privately  suspect  it  was  ex 
clusively  the  latter  which  roused  his  enthu 
siasm.  At  any  rate,  that  child  saved  the  Club 
House  and  me.  There  was  laughter,  a  stir,  a 
murmur,  and  presently  the  Kruse  men  gave 
three  cheers.  The  favor  of  this  powerful 
faction  secured,  there  was  nothing  more  to 
fear.  But  what  if  it  had  been  but  a  Miller  or 
Mayer  boy's  donkey  which  elicited  that  first 
rapturous  shout ! 


A   FELLOWE    AND  HIS  WIFE  173 

Kruse  senior,  with  incomparable  dignity, 
thanked  me  in  the  name  of  the  village.  Thus 
encouraged,  I  ventured  to  lead  the  way  to 
the  reading-room.  Margot  and  Batheldis  had 
dressed  two  children  as  much  like  their  own 
venerable  grandfather  and  grandmother  as 
possible,  and  there  the  little  things  sat  side  by 
side  at  the  long  table  covered  with  books  and 
papers,  in  the  middle  of  the  large  bright  room. 
Bewigged,  be-spectacled,  she  with  her  cap  and 
knitting,  he  with  pipe,  mug,  and  a  long  white 
beard,  both  peering  demurely  at  newspapers, 
they  made  a  droll  and  charming  picture. 
Presently  the  people,  in  the  best  possible  hu 
mor,  were  examining  bookshelves  and  engrav 
ings,  and  some  seated  themselves  gravely  and 
read  a  while,  to  show  that  they  were  accus 
tomed  to  this  sort  of  thing.  Over  the  door  is 
"  Reading-Room  for  Men  and  Women."  To 
accentuate  the  latter  significant  word,  we  had 
arrayed  the  little  grandmother.  To  a  good 
supper  in  the  dining-room  they  needed  no  se 
ductions,  but  fell  to  most  graciously.  By  nine 
o'clock  the  children  were  sent  home,  and  we 


174  A   FELLOWE   AND  HIS  WIFE 

had  a  business  meeting,  about  which  I  will  tell 
you  later.  I  had  no  little  trouble  in  inducing 
them  to  elect  a  few  women  on  various  com 
mittees.  But  I  insidiously  suggested  the  Club 
was  a  family  affair,  also  that  Richard  Kruse's 
wife  had  more  sense  than  most  of  the  men, 
which  greatly  pleased  the  old  fellow.  He  took 
it,  of  course,  as  a  tribute  to  himself.  Finally 
I  begged  them  as  a  favor  to  try  it  for  a  year, 
knowing  very  well  that  if  the  women  are  once 
in,  they  will  stay.  At  half-past  ten  we  ad 
journed,  and  I  felt  relieved  that  the  opening 
was  not  the  fiasco  it  had  threatened  to  be.  I 
heartily  hope  the  thing  is  going  to  be  profit 
able  to  them  ;  but  I  so  often  blunder  when  I 
think  I  'm  doing  something  clever,  and  my 
clever  strokes  are  so  often  purely  by  accident, 
that  sometimes  I  am  tempted  to  let  people 
alone. 

Since  Christmas  the  Club  is  in  full  blast, 
the  reading-room  much  frequented,  and  we 
have  had  an  excellent  concert  by  a  Swedish 
singer,  and  a  young  violinist,  who,  at  my  re 
quest,  came  over  from  Copenhagen  ;  a  lecture 


A   FELLOWE  AND  HIS  WIFE  1/5 

on    Ships,    by    Professor    Schultz,    of    Berlin, 
whose  seafaring  audience  sauntered  in  with  a 
superior  air,  but  speedily  was  listening  to  him 
with    breathless   interest,    and    unconsciously 
swallowed  good- doses  of  history  interlarded  in 
his  tales  of  canoes,  rafts,  barges,  and  galleys. 
A  red-hot  social  democrat  orator  has  also  fa 
vored  us.     This  is  a  returned  sailor — Horst 
-who  has   been  in  many  ports,  and  picked 
up  scraps  of  wit  and  wisdom,  which  he  flings 
about  right  valiantly.     He  delights  to  waylay 
me  and  argue,  but  as  I  am  a  busy  man  and  he 
is  not,  I  cannot  always  gratify  him.      He  was 
chagrined  to  discover  that  I  was  not  wholly 
ignorant  of   modern    movements  ;    that  I  had 
frequently  attended  social  democrat  meetings 
in  Berlin  ;  that  I  fully  agreed  with  many  of  his 
premises,  when  not    with   all  his  deductions  ; 
and  that  I  was  a  socialist  myself  with  certain 
reservations.     I    told   him    the    existing   evils 
were  apparent  to  all  thoughtful  men,  but  men 
differed  radically,  and  had  a  right  to  differ,  as 
to  the  method  of  cure.     This   he   denies,    of 
course,  allowing   no    Gedanken-Freiheit  what- 


i;6  A   FELLOWE   AND  HIS  WIFE 

ever.  Revolutionists  never  realize  that  they 
themselves  are  the  worst  possible  despots. 
He  asked  me  recently  if  I  would  dare  to  let 
him  make  a  speech  at  the  Club.  I  replied  that 
so  far  as  I  was  concerned  it  would  give  me 
pleasure  to  hear  him,  but  I  had  no  more  au 
thority  than  the  other  directors.  If  he  wished 
to  speak,  he  must  send  in  his  request  properly, 
and  must  also  agree  to  listen  civilly  in  case 
some  one  should  choose  to  reply.  Fritz  Kruse 
volunteered  to  meet  him.  The  debate  came 
off  before  a  crowded  house.  Knowing  toler 
ably  well  what  Horst  would  say,  I  primed 
Fritz  a  bit  —  not  his  sentiments,  but  his  par 
liamentary  tactics.  I  had  half  a  mind  not  to 
go  down  that  evening,  for  while  Horst  is  not 
overburdened  with  delicacy,  I  fancied  my  pres 
ence  might  dampen  his  eloquence  more  or. 
less,  and  I  wanted  to  leave  him  free  to  paint 
me  in  the  blackest  colors.  However,  I  finally 
went,  which  as  things  turned  out  was  lucky. 

When  Horst  approached  the  bloated  capi 
talist  business  and  the  criminal  landowner, 
there  was  a  burst  of  rather  offensive  laughter, 


A   FELLOWE   AND  HIS  WIFE  177 

for  everybody  knows  that  there  is  not  one  of 
my  laborers  over  thirty  who  does  not  own  his 
cottage  and  bit  of  land,  and  that  each  has  his 
share  of  my  profits, —  if  profits  there  be,  —  and 
that  since  the  day  when  my  father's  death 
called  me  suddenly  to  the  management  of  the 
estate,  I  have  been  steadily  working  in  these 
directions.  So  Horst's  shots  fell  a  trifle  wide 
of  the  mark  at  first.  Irritated  by  this,  and  by 
their  not  precisely  sotto  voce  jeers,  he  went 
further,  and  attacked  me  personally,  denoun 
cing  me  for  being  what  he  called  an  aristocrat 
and  the  son  of  my  father.  This  terrible  im 
peachment  made  a  tremendous  uproar.  Old 
Malte  got  up  in  a  fine  fury,  and  roared  at  him 
that  he  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  himself,  and 
better  go  about  his  business,  instead  of  stand 
ing  there  jawing  and  lying  and  abusing  his 
betters.  Then  followed  a  minute  and  merci 
less  record  of  all  Horst's  youthful  peccadilloes 
from  the  time  he  was  in  petticoats.  You  may 
imagine  my  amusement  at  this  grotesque 
intermezzo.  The  Kruse  men  applauded  and 
yelled,  of  course  —  Malte's  wife  being  a  Kruse 


178  A   FELLOWE   AND  HIS  WIFE 

—  and  made  such  a  pandemonium,  poor  Horst 
could  not  go  on.  There  he  stood,  frantically 
gesticulating,  and  young  Kruse  beside  him, 
likewise  brandishing  his  arms.  It  was  a  price 
less  moment,  and  I  wished  it  were  not  my  duty 
to  interfere.  When  the  people  saw  me  on  the 
platform  they  became  tolerably  quiet,  and  let 
me  speak. 

I  told  them  that  they  had  misunderstood 
Horst  ;  that  he  had  nothing  against  me  per 
sonally,  but  only  against  the  class  to  which  I 
belonged,  and  I  should  be  obliged  if  they 
would  listen  to  him  attentively,  for  he  had  had 
permission  to  speak,  and  the  Club  could  not 
give  and  retract  its  word  in  this  fashion  ;  that 
Horst  had  a  right  to  his  opinions  —  every  man 
had ;  that  he  had  traveled,  and  could  tell  us 
much  that  was  interesting ;  and  that  I  felt 
sure  Fritz  Kruse  would  be  a  match  for  him,  if 
only  they  would  have  patience  and  give  both 
men  a  fair  chance. 

The  audience  reluctantly  concluded  to  sit 
down  and  behave  itself.  Horst  made  some 
good  points,  which  I  alone  applauded.  Kruse, 


A   FELLOWE  AND  HIS  WIFE  1/9 

who  had  been  waiting  like  a  hound  in  the 
leash,  spoke  well  for  a  maiden  effort.  He  was 
less  sharp  and  adroit  than  Horst,  but  clear, 
sensible,  and  zealous.  Besides  what  he  had 
prepared,  he  took  me  under  his  wing  very 
neatly,  and  of  his  own  inspiration.  However, 
if  he  had  spouted  arrant  nonsense,  he  would 
have  had  the  sympathy  of  that  crowd ;  for  in 
the  first  place,  he  was  a  Kruse,  and  then  they 
are  so  unenlightened,  so  feudal ;  they  had  no 
notion  of  sitting  still  and  hearing  me  insulted. 
As  to  social  democracy,  it  has  scarcely  pen 
etrated  here.  You  know  well  the  contracted 
sphere  and  the  tenacity  of  attachment  of  our 
islanders.  It  is  incredible,  how  exclusive,  how 
conservative,  how  apathetic  toward  the  world 
at  large  they  are  ;  how  they  all  regard  their 
little  home-spot  of  earth  as  the  chief  spot  — 
in  fact,  the  only  spot  of  importance  in  the  uni 
verse  ;  how  they  cling  to  the  old  and  familiar, 
and  want  no  improvement,  not  a  utensil  or 
machine  which  their  grandfathers  did  not 
know  ;  how  totally  without  interest  and  com 
prehension  they  are,  not  only  for  the  outer 


180  A   FELLOWE  AND   HIS  WIFE 

world,  but  one  county,  one  hamlet,  for  another, 
the  Monchgtit  men  for  the  Jasmund  men  — 
everywhere  stolidity,  or  jealousy  and  contempt. 
Ignorant,  superstitious,  obstinate  race  !  Yet 
hard-working,  patient,  full  of  endurance  and 
fortitude,  and  loyal  men,  stubborn  in  their  vir 
tues  as  in  their  faults. 

Knowing  them  and  loving  them  well,  I  see 
much  work  before  me.  You  know  I  am  not  a 
pessimist,  not  a  bit  fin  de  sihle.  I  could  n't  be 
if  I  would,  and  would  n't  if  I  could.  I  think  it 
is  good  to  live  precisely  now,  at  the  end  of  the 
nineteenth  century  —  in  these  pulsating,  elec 
tric,  prescient  days.  I  am  not  so  optimistic  as 
to  expect  that  a  new  heaven  and  a  new  earth 
can  ever  be  suddenly  created,  or  that  any  one 
system  is  faultless,  and  will  miraculously  pro 
duce  universal  happiness.  But  with  quiet,  con 
tinued,  resolute  effort,  much  may  be  attained  ; 
and  I  have  the  conviction  that  I  am  "  called  " 
to  work  for  the  enlightenment  and  rights  of 
the  people  among  whom  I  was  born,  and  whom 
I  understand,  at  least  as  well  as  any  other  man 
may  hope  to  understand  them.  Sometimes,  in 


A    FELLOWE  AND   HIS  WIFE  l8l 

certain  black  moods,  I  have  asked  myself  what 
I  should  do  if  I  should  ever  lose  you,  Use,  by 
death,  or  any  mischance — which  latter  diplo 
matic  phrase  means,  in  more  fearless  language, 
if  you  should  love  some  other  man,  if  you 
should  never  return  to  me.  I  have  often 
thought  I  would  go  to  Africa,  and  none  here 
should  ever  hear  of  me  again  ;  but  I  would  do 
no  such  thing.  I  would  simply  stay  here  and 
fight  it  out,  blundering  on  as  best  I  could. 
There  is  work  enough  for  a  better  man  than  I 
at  my  own  door.  I  have  no  need  to  help  colo 
nization  in  Africa,  or  Australia,  or  the  western 
United  States.  My  life-work  lies  clearly  be 
fore  me,  whatever  comes,  and  I  shall  try  to  do 
it,  with  you  or  without  you  —  but  that  is  a 
weary,  horrible  thought,  a  ghastly  thought. 
Let  me  rather  be  "  a  little  glad,"  as  Margot 
says,  reminding  myself  that  the  New  Year  has 
come,  the  year  which  will  bring  you  home. 

Use,  I  have  two  commissions  for  you.  I 
want  a  copy,  the  best  you  can  obtain,  of 
Murillo's  St.  Anthony  of  Padua  —  the  one  in 
Berlin ;  not  the  angels,  only  the  central  figure 


1 82  A   FELL  OWE  AND  HIS  WIFE 

with  the  child  in  his  arms.  This  is  for  my 
own  personal  gratification.  And  then  I  — 
even  I  —  want  a  statue.  I  see  it  plainly,  the 
thing  I  want.  It  is  the  spirit  of  Light,  with 
hopeful  eyes,  an  uplifted  torch,  and  striding 
swiftly  on.  She  must  be  beautiful  and  bold, 
for  whoever  fights  the  powers  of  darkness 
needs  courage.  Make  her  strong  and  fearless 
enough  to  face  an  angry  mob.  You  will 
doubtless  be  surprised  at  my  temerity  in  ap 
proaching  you  on  your  own  ground,  yet  I  'm 
not  an  out-and-out  Vandal,  after  all.  It  seems 
to  me  I  have  a  vague  suspicion  of  the  meaning 
of  such  a  life  as  Albrecht  Diirer's,  or  Michel 
Angelo's,  or  Velasquez's,  or  Millet's,  or  many 
I  could  name.  It  is  the  earnestness,  the  pro 
found  conviction,  that  I  revere  in  art  as  in 
other  things,  but  —  there,  I  am  at  it  again, 
and  I  presume  to  call  the  Kruses  stubborn ! 

And  so  our  little  world  revolves  — far,  very 
far  from  you.  Do  you  need  me  ?  Do  you 
want  me  ?  Are  you  really  happy  down  there, 
lichen  ?  Are  you  getting  what  you  want  ? 

ODO. 


A   FELLOWE  AND  HIS  WIFE  183 

One  word  about  Light.  It  is  for  the  Club 
lecture  -  room.  It  is  not  in  your  line,  I  pre 
sume.  Order  it  where  you  please,  and  make 
what  terms  you  think  right.  You  will  know 
better  than  I  what  I  want.  I  make  no  con 
dition,  except  one  —  I  don't  want  Herwegh 
to  have  anything  to  do  with  it. 


XXI 

FROM    THE    COUNTESS    TO   COUNT   VON   JAROMAR. 

Palazzo  Malaspina, 

January  g. 

MY  DEAR  ODO  : 

To-day  I  am  tired,  and  am  going  to  give 
myself  up  to  letter-writing  (a  little),  reading 
(not  too  much),  scheming  (just  enough  to  de 
light,  and  not  to  excite  me),  and  dreaming 
(and  as  that  in  my  present  mood  is  most 
tempting  of  all,  it  shall  have  my  freest  largesse 
of  time). 

I  am  first  about  to  clear  off  some  corre 
spondence,  "  all  about  nothing  and  every 
thing,"  as  Lotta  Heidelorf's  little  girl  is  wont 
to  say  with  an  air  of  profound  wiseacredom. 
What  an  absurd  child  she  is  !  Have  I  told 
you  about  her  before  ?  The  other  day  she 
was  present  when  several  people  were  drink 
ing  coffee  and  talking  scandal.  Herwegh 
made  some  remark  about  a  Marchese  Some- 


A   FELLOWE   AND   HIS  WIFE  185 

body,  to  the  effect  that  it  would  be  common 
place  to  say  of  such  a  man  that  he  had  broken 
all  the  Ten  Commandments  ;  the  number 
should  be  extended  at  least  to  thirteen.  Ulrich 
Heicleloff  laughingly  responded,  "  I  have  al 
ways  heard,  Friedrich,  that  you  and  the  Mar- 
chese  were  inseparable  !  "  I  saw  little  Ottilie 
look  fixedly  at  her  beloved  friend.  "  Ottilie," 
I  asked,  "  do  you  believe  that  Herr  Herwegh 
has  broken  all  the  Commandments  ? "  She 
glanced  at  me  with  calm,  unsuspecting  eyes  as 
she  replied  in  all  seriousness,  "  Some  of  them 
I  think  he  has  only  cracked!"  Is  not  that 
far  more  delightful  than  the  most  cynical 
sayings  of  a  Heine  or  a  Voltaire  ?  Friedrich 
overheard  it,  and  with  a  whimsical  smile  re 
marked,  sotto  voce,  "  I  have  never  married,  and 
now  shall  probably  go  to  my  grave  without 
the  privilege  of  owning  such  a  child.  Yet  I 
don't  feel  as  though  a  new  terror  were  added 
to  Death  ! "  I  like  him  when  he  is  whim 
sical,  not  when  he  is  cynical.  I  told  him  that 
Lucrezia  and  I  were  going  to  become  great 
friends.  He  smiled,  but  made  no  reply.  I 


1 86  A   FELLOWE  AND  HIS  WIFE 

was  displeased,  and  he  saw  it.  "  Friendship," 
he  then  added,  in  a  tone  that  might  or  might 
not  indicate  sincerity,  "  friendship  is  impossi 
ble  between  a  prince  and,  say,  an  office  clerk  ; 
it  is  almost  as  difficult  between  a  handsome 
man  and  a  beautiful  woman  ;  between  two 
beautiful  women  it  is  but  a  dream,  a  poetic 
fiction." 

"  You  have  little  real  belief  in  women,"  I 
replied  scornfully.  "  On  the  contrary,"  he  re 
joined,  "physiologically  as  well  as  otherwise,  I 
think  women  superior  to  men.  Woman  is  the 
nervous  part  of  humanity,  as  man  is  the  mus 
cular." 

Count  Kourbaline,  who  is  on  the  staff  of  the 
Russian  embassy  here,  and  an  intimate  friend 
of  Herwegh's,  though  to  me  an  objectionable 
man  in  every  way,  overheard  and  joined  incur 
criss-cross  conversation.  But  I  won't  repeat 
what  was  said,  though  some  of  it  was  amusing 
enough,  and  a  little,  a  very  little,  even  witty  ; 
still,  it  was  all  banal — at  least  to  me,  who 
know  so  well  that  Herwegh  is  not  really  the 
man  it  is  his  pleasure  in  public  to  pretend  he 


A   FELLOWE  AND  HIS  WIFE  1 87 

is.  If  he  were,  I  should  hate  him,  for  all  his 
greatness  as  a  sculptor.  Indeed,  I  shall  tell 
him  this  some  day. 

Of  course  the  talk  drifted  on  to  marriage. 
"There  is  only  one  thing  essential  to  a  sat 
isfactory  union,"  said  Kourbaline. '  "  Friend 
ship,"  I  hazarded.  "  Separation,"  suggested 
Herwegh.  "  Neither,"  exclaimed  Kourbaline, 
"  but  merely  that  the  husband  should  be  deaf 
and  that  the  wife  should  be  blind."  Somehow 
I  can't  enjoy  these  things  as  some  people  do. 
Even  Lotta,  who  had  joined  us,  laughed  at 
what  she  called  the  Count's  wickedness,  and 
yet  what  he  said  was  to  her  obviously  a  natu 
ral  enough  saying.  I  sometimes  think  I  am 
very  stupid.  She  (Lotta)  turned  to  Kourba 
line  and  told  him  to  beware  ;  that  there  was 
a  certain  Viking  Count  away  up  in  the  north, 
who  might  appear  at  any  moment.  He  made 
a  fantastic  grimace,  and  said  something  in 
French  so  rapidly  that  I  did  not  catch  it.  It 
was  something  about  Orpheus.  I  wonder  what 
it  was.  Before  I  could  ask  Herwegh,  who  had 
turned  for  a  moment  to  speak  to  some  one 


1 88  A    FELLOWE   AND   HIS  WIFE 


passing,  Kourbaline  had  seated  himself  at  the 
piano  and  was  singing  blithely  :  — 

"Du  meine  Seele,  du  mein  Herz, 
Du  meine  Worm',  O  du  mein  Schmerz." 

And  now  I  am  tired  writing  to  you.  Don't 
be  offended,  for  I  am  going  to  scribble  to  you 
at  intervals  betwixt  this  and  bedtime  ;  only, 
as  I  hinted  to  you  at  the  outset,  I  am  in  a 
variable  mood  to-day.  I  must  enjoy  my  holi 
day  in  my  own  way.  I  shall  write  those  little 
notes  I  spoke  of.  By  the  by,  I  have  received 
a  commission  for  another  Undine,  and  whom 
do  you  think  from  ?  From  a  Grand-Duke, 
though  his  extremely  High  and  Remote  Might 
iness  is  as  yet  known  to  me  only  through 
his  intermediary,  Count  Kourbaline.  And 
then  I  shall  dip  into  some  French  books  that 
have  come  for  me  —  Bourget's  Essais  de  Psy- 
cJiologie  Contemporaine,  and  Guy  de  Maupas 
sant's  new  novel,  and  my  favorite  Shelley, 
perhaps.  And  then  I  shall  dream  and  idle  till 
lunch,  and  idle  and  dream  till  Signora  Lucre- 
zia  makes  her  promised  call.  I  wish  I  had 
never  gone  to  the  Villa  Mallerini.  Indeed,  in- 


A   FELLOWE  AArD  HIS  WIFE  189 

deed,  it  would  have  been  better  had  I  flown 
northward,  if  but  for  a  glimpse  of  you  and  the 
others. 

Afternoon. 

It  is  only  so  in  point  of  fact,  for  it  has  not 
yet  struck  two.  I  have  lunched  entirely  off 
fruit  and  that  delicious  white  curded  goat's 
milk  the  Romans  call  riccotta,  and  a  little  of 
the  light,  delicate  golden  wine  of  Montefias- 
cone,  which  to  my  depraved  feminine  palate  is 
superior  even  to  the  best  Orvieto,  which  you 
told  me  to  thank  the  gods  for  each  time  I  put 
it  to  my  lips.  It  has  been  a  pleasant  day.  I 
seem  to  be  in  a  dream.  One  loses  so  much  in 
even  the  best  dreams,  not  knowing  them  to 
be  dreams.  Perhaps  I  may  think  differently 
some  day.  But  to-day  I  am  young,  and  alive, 
and  happy  ;  and  oh,  it  is  so  good  to  be  so  ! 
Christmas-day  seems  to  me  not  only  far  away 
now,  but  almost  as  if  it  too  were  a  dream.  I 
wish  it  were,  and  that  it  would  not  recur. 
Have  you  ever  noticed  how  naturally  every 
beautiful  thing  either  turns  gold  or  lends  it 
self  to  a  golden  touch  ?  I  watched  a  long 


A   FELLOWE  AND  HIS  WIFE 


sunbeam  steal  through  the  curtains  beside  my 
open  window  and  turn  the  olive-green  shades 
into  a  richer  tone  ;  then  upon  a  Japanese 
screen,  which  it  made  positively  radiant  ;  then 
it  lingered  upon  an  old  vellum-bound  volume 
which  I  picked  up  at  a  book-stall  in  the  Via 
Giulio  Romano,  and  caused  it  to  gleam  like 
ivory  in  firelight.  Ah,  there  !  how  a  fugitive 
word  will  allure  one.  My  sunbeam  has  wan 
dered  into  a  corner  beyond  my  old  tulip-wood 
piano,  and  there  I  leave  it  ;  for  that  word 
"  firelight"  has  called  up  Jaromar,  and  all  the 
dear  homely  comforts  and  quiet  beauty  and  — 
what  can  I  call  it  ?  —  northern  delight.  I 
have  a  sudden  longing  for  the  north  at  its 
bleakest,  the  pines  heavy  with  snow  and  creak 
ing  in  the  rush  of  the  wind  ;  the  boom  of  the 
sea  calling,  calling,  through  the  darkness  ;  and 
above  all  for  a  corner  in  a  certain  room  I 
know  of  in  Schloss  Jaromar,  with  no  light 
save  from  a  great  pine-log  fire,  and  no  one 
speaking,  not  even  you  —  no  sound  except  the 
wind  around  the  Schloss  gables  and  the  crack, 
—  crackle  —  crash  of  the  glowing  logs.  Oh, 


A   FELLOWE  AND  HIS  WIFE  191 

never  believe  that  I  am  not  as  much  a  North 
erner  as  you!  I  could  give  up  just  now  my 
well-loved  Rome,  just  as  I  have  thrown  aside 
that  tiresome  Guy  de  Maupassant.  Fancy  if 
the  world  were  nothing  but  Boule  de  S 
Bel  Ami  on  a  large  scale  !  And  I  could  — 

Four  o'clock. 

No  Lucrezia  yet  ;  but  Herwegh  has  beei 
here.  I  have  had  a  long  and  earnest  talk  with 
him.  He  is  not  the  man  you  suppose  him  to 
be.  Even  I  have  been  unjust  to  him.  You 
will  perhaps  think  better  of  him  when  you 
learn  that  he  spoke  to  me  frankly  about  my 
position  here,  and  even  warned  me  not  to  see 
too  much  of  the  Rasellas  and  their  English 
friend  St.  Clair,  and  all  that  set ;  indeed,  he 
went  as  far  as  to  put  me  on  my  guard  with 
Count  Kourbaline  —  and  this  though  Kour- 
baline  is  one  of  his  intimate  friends !  I  am 
somewhat  perturbed,  I  confess,  at  his  not 
having  spoken  to  me  about  the  Mallcrinis 
before.  I  told  him  frankly  that  he  had  no 
right  to  mislead  me.  But  he  was  so  contrite, 


192  A   PEL  LOWE  AND  HIS  WIFE 

and  I  saw  too  that  he  had  erred  out  of  loyalty 
to  his  friends,  that  I  forgave  him.  It  appears 
that  Cesare  has  an  evil  reputation,  and  that 
there  are  even  unpleasant  rumors  about  Lucre- 
zia.  In  a  word,  he  was  quite  earnest  about 
my  seeing  no  more  of  her;  and  suggested  in 
the  most  cavalier  fashion  that  I  shouldsirr/- 
ply  refuse  to  see  her.  This,  of  course,  I  can 
not  meanwhile  consent  to  do.  I  have  been 
her  guest,  and  I  have  no  reason  for  consider 
ing  her  a  woman  best  left  to  her  own  devices. 
I  cannot  help  regret  at  Herwegh's  having 
spoken  so  strongly  against  her,  though  he  ob 
viously  did  so  with  reluctance  and  only  to 
serve  me.  I  did  not  tell  him  she  was  com 
ing  this  afternoon,  but  neither  did  I  let  him 
understand  that  I  was  going  to  act  on  his 
advice  unreservedly.  This  naturally  led  to  the 
subject  of  the  Christmas  party  and  the  sudden 
break-up.  I  could  see  that  Herwegh  was  un 
willing  to  say  all  he  knew,  so  I  did  not  press 
him.  I  gather  that  there  was  a  duel  between 
Cesare  and  one  of  his  acquaintances  whom  he 
had  wronged  (or  who  had  wronged  him ;  I 


A   FELLOWE  AND   HIS  WIFE  193 

could  not  make  out  which),  in  which  Lucrezia 
was  also  in  some  way  involved.  Friedrich,  I 
imagine,  was  Cesare's  second. 

But  I  dropped  the  subject  when  I  saw  it 
was  unwelcome.  Herwegh  surprised  me  by 
depreciating  Rome  as  an  art-centre,  for  a 
sculptor  at  any  rate.  He  told  me  a  great  deal 
about  Parisian  art-life,  and  the  great  advan 
tages  of  all  kinds.  He  has  made  me  quite  in 
love  with  the  idea.  Imagine !  he  has  taken 
a  charming  villa,  with  an  immense  studio,  be 
tween  St.  Cloud  and  Suresnes  —  the  loveliest 
part  of  the  Seine  near  Paris.  He  declares 
Paris  is  the  only  place  for  a  sculptor.  I  am 
so  sorry  that  he  thinks  of  leaving  Rome.  He 
is  certainly  the  most  astonishing  person,  to 
keep  all  this  quiet  till  he  had  concluded  his 
plans — for  he  said  little  to  the  point  at  the 
Villa  Mallerini. 

I  asked  him  what  Count  Kourbaline  said 
before  he  turned  away  to  sing.  He  laughed 
maliciously  and  replied  that  the  Count  was  of 
the  same  mind  as  somebody  else  who  wrote, 
or  said,  that  for  one  Orpheus  who  went  to 


194  A   FELLOWE  AND  HIS  WIFE 

hell  to  seek  his  wife,  how  many  husbands 
would  not  even  go  to  Paradise  to  find  theirs. 
I  said  what  I  thought,  and  think,  that  Count 
Kourbaline  is  an  essentially  vulgar  man,  how 
ever  high  his  social  position  may  be  ;  and  that 
I  was  well  content  to  drop  the  acquaintance 
ship.  I  think  Herwegh  was  somewhat  sur 
prised  that  I  showed  so  much  resentment. 
But,  to  tell  the  truth,  I  am  tired  of  these  end 
less  gibes  at  married  people,  and  at  women 
as  women.  I  am  glad  to  say  that  Herwegh 
absolutely  agreed  with  me,  and  even  admitted 
that  his  own  habitual  cynicism  was  only  skin- 
deep.  He  has  asked  me  to  do  something  that 
makes  me  very  proud  and  happy.  He  has 
been  commissioned  to  draw  a  series  of  outline- 
illustrations  to  accompany  the  text  of  the 
Austrian  poet  Hammerling's  fine  poem  Aha- 
suer  in  Rom ;  and  he  has  begged  me  to  col 
laborate  with  him.  He  has  not  time  to  do  the 
whole  series,  nor,  he  affirms,  the  ability  (or,  as 
I  should  say  for  him,  the  mood);  and  he  wants 
me  to  undertake  tenor  twelve.  As,  naturally, 
outline  drawing  has  been  my  strong  point  with 


A   FELLOWE  AND  HIS  WIFE  195 

the  pencil,  I  have  agreed  to  try.  It  will  take 
much  time  and  thought  to  decide  which  lines 
or  passages  contain  the  happiest  inspirations. 
Herwegh  tells  me  that  even  financially  it  may 
be  well  worth  my  while,  both  immediately 
and  prospectively. 

Altogether  I  am  in  a  very  elated  state  of 
mind.  Delightful  possibilities  are  opening 
before  me.  It  has  all  excited  me  so  much 
that  I  am  half  inclined  to  forfeit  my  day's 
idleness,  after  all.  Ten  minutes  after  he  had 
left,  I  saw  that  my  room  was  just  flooded  with 
sunshine,  and  if  it  were  not  for  Lucrezia's 
promised  call,  I  should  have  gone  out  into  the 
beautiful  world,  to  rejoice  in  the  sunlight  and 
the  gladness  everywhere.  How  lovely  winter 
is  in  the  South. 

But  no,  I  must  wait  for  Lucrezia.  I  am 
now  lazily  going  to  lie  down  and  dream  over 
Ahasuer  in  Rom  and  Shelley's  Prometheus 
Unbound.  One  will  help  the  other,  I  am  sure. 

I  '11  keep  this  open  to  add  the  account  of 
the  Mallerini's  visit,  and  to  tell  you  how  the 
evening  is  to  be  passed.  I  wonder  what  she 


196  A   FELLOWE  AND  HIS  WIFE 

wants  to  confide  or  discover.  Her  sister-in- 
law  sighed  for  France  in  the  most  ridiculous 
way ;  did  I  tell  you  ?  The  woman  had  not 
been  in  Italy  ten  days  ! 

Life  certainly  must  be  very  pleasant  in 
Paris.  It  is  the  centre  of  the  Art-world. 
Fancy  how  charming  in  the  spring  months  to 
live  in  a  shady  place  on  the  Seine  and  yet 
quite  close  to  Paris.  And  the  freedom,  and 
joyous  company,  and  the  —  oh,  but  I  must 
not  think  of  it !  And  ye.t,  why  not  ?  This 
was  to  be  my  day  of  dreams. 

Addio,  sposo  mio  ;  I  go  to  my  sofa  to  dream. 

Evening. 

How  horrible  people  can  be !  I  feel  very 
wretched  to-night,  and  wish  I  were  —  well, 
anywhere  save  in  Rome. 

I  have  not  much  to  tell  you,  after  all.  Lu- 
crezia  Mallerini  came  at  five  o'clock,  and  as 
she  is  not  long  gone,  and  it  is  about  to  strike 
six,  her  visit  has  been  for  less  than  an  hour. 
It  seems  three  times  as  long. 

She  told  me  a   very   wild   and    improbable 


A   FELLOWE  AND  HIS  WIFE  197 


story  about  herself  and  a  lover,  and  Cesare's 
cruelty,  and,  in  a  word,  more  than  confirmed 
Herwegh's  hints  about  her  having  been  impli 
cated  in  the  duel  on  Christmas  night.  I  was 
very  much  distressed  ;  her  manner,  too,  was  so 
extraordinary.  Once  I  thought  she  was  going 
to  spring  at  me.  At  last  I  became  wearied, 
and  let  her  know  that  she  had  told  me  at  once 
too  much  and  too  little,  and  that  I  could  not 
see,  either  way,  how  I  could  interfere  in  the 
affair,  directly  or  indirectly.  Upon  this  she 
suddenly  forgot  herself  completely.  It  is  quite 
needless  for  me  to  repeat  what  she  said,  but  I 
rose,  and  quietly  begged  her  to  withdraw,  as 
the  interview  could  now  be  productive  of  no 
good,  and  was  most  painful  to  me. 

I  do  not  know  what  the  upshot  would 
have  been,  but  as  I  opened  the  door,  there, 
to  my  astonishment  and  Lucrezia's  consterna 
tion,  stood  her  brother-in-law,  Egidio  Mallerini. 
"Your  husband  is  seriously  ill,"  he  said,  but 
in  a  harsh  and  almost  insulting  tone,  while  he 
not  only  did  not  lift  his  hat  to  me,  but  gave 
me  a  look  which  made  me  almost  cry  out. 


198  A   FELLOWE  AND  HIS  WIFE 

"  Your  husband  is  seriously  ill ;  so  be  so 
good  as  to  recover  from  your  hysterics  and 
accompany  me  without  delay." 

I  cannot  repeat  what  she  said.  She  is  a 
slanderer  as  well  as  a  traitorous  and  evil  wo 
man. 

It  all  makes  me  so  unhappy.  Oh,  how  I 
wish  I  had  never  met  this  woman  —  that  I  had 
never  gone  to  their  wretched  villa  ! 

P.  S.  I  have  just  time  to  scribble  these 
closing  lines.  Lilien  Rohrich  has  sent  for  me 
to  join  them  at  dinner  and  go  on  afterwards  to 
the  opera  to  hear  Mascagni's  new  piece.  I 
am  so  glad  merely  to  get  out  of  my  rooms  and 
be  amused.  But  don't  worry  about  the  Lu- 
crezia  episode.  I  shall  soon  forget  the  pain 
she  has  caused  me.  And,  indeed,  withal,  I 
am  sorry  for  her.  But  — 


XXII 

FROM    THE    SAME    TO   THE   SAME. 

Palazzo  Malaspina, 

January  14. 

THANKS  for  your  good  letter  about  Christ 
mas,  and  about  your  work,  which  always  inter 
ests  me  ;  and  I  am  going  to  tell  you  about  my 
work,  Odo,  believing  that  you  really  do  care  to 
hear  about  it,  though  ever  and  again  there  is 
something  in  your  letters  that  makes  me  fear 
you  think  I  am  here  to  carry  out  a  whim  or  an 
unreasonable  desire,  instead  of  what  I  myself 
certainly  take  to  be  a  duty.  And  —  but  no  ; 
explanations  of  arguments  in  letters  are  even 
more  annoying  and  confusing  than  they  are 
apt  to  be  orally. 

I  am  very  happy  in  the  progress  I  am  mak 
ing.  Under  Herwegh's  guidance  and  sugges 
tion  I  have  not  only  learned  much,  but  (what 
I  now  recognize  to  have  been  imperative, 
though  I  had  but  a  vague  prevision  of  it)  have 


200  A    FELLOWE   AND  HIS    WIFE 

had  to  unlearn  scarce  less.  My  little  Rose 
and  Lily,  of  which  I  wrote  to  you  so  jubilantly, 
were  unhesitatingly  condemned  by  my  maes 
tro  when  he  saw  my  studies  for  them.  "  It  is 
well  that  they  are  only  in  clay,"  was  the  sole 
comment  he  made  at  first.  And  now,  alas  ! 
—  No!  Evoe  Of — they  have  vanished  into 
nothingness  as  though  they  were  no  whit  less 
perishable  than  their  far  more  beautiful  pro 
totypes,  which  can  be  bought  at  any  moment 
of  the  flower-sellers  for  a  few  soldi. 

I  have  learned  a  great  deal,  too,  from  long 
study  in  the  sculpture  galleries  of  the  Vatican 
and  the  Capitol  —  not  from  visiting  them,  but 
by  studying  every  square  inch,  every  fugitive 
touch  of  the  modeling  thumb  or  the  finishing 
chisel,  in  one,  or  at  most  two  or  three,  of  the 
noblest  works  only.  Sometimes  Herwegh  has 
generously  spared  an  hour  or  so  to  act  as  my 
cicerone.  It  is  so  delightful  when  he  can  come, 
for,  besides  his  rare  technical  skill  and  know 
ledge,  he  knows  all  about  each  sculptor's  life, 
and  work,  and  true  rank  ;  and,  moreover,  I  ver 
ily  believe  there  is  not  a  Greek  legend  with 


A    FELLOWE  AND  HIS  WIFE  2OI 

which  he  is  unfamiliar.  I  am  ashamed  to  find 
how  ignorant  I  am  about  the  history  even  of 
my  own  art.  Again  I  have  spent  some  happy 
hours  at  the  Borghese,  the  Rospigliosi,  and 
other  private  collections.  I  have  been  sin 
gularly  touched,  too,  by  one  thing.  In  the 
Prince  Borghese's  small  but,  oh,  so  lovely  col 
lection  of  ancient  ivory-sculpture,  there  are 
three  exquisite  pieces  —  a  short  frieze,  proba 
bly  representing  Dionysos  with  two  beautiful 
Bacchantes  ;  a  small  urn,  that  might  indeed  be 
a  drinking-cup,  with  nothing  but  a  large  but 
terfly  and  some  strewn  poppies  ;  and  the  fig 
ure  of  a  young  faun.  It  was  the  faun  that  first 
attracted  my  attention.  I  did  not  understand 
the  Greek  inscription  minutely  cut  in  the  little 
block,  but  Herwegh  told  me  it  was  to  the 
effect  that  "  Rhodope,  the  wife  of  Sionos,  had 
made  this  Faun."  It  was  this  Greek  woman 
also  who  made  the  urn  and  the  frieze.  Almost 
nothing  is  known  of  her,  though  the  legend 
that  Herwegh  related  touches  me  strangely. 
The  date  of  her  birth  or  death,  of  her  exact 
period  even,  is  unknown  ;  but  one  or  two  con- 


2O2  A    FELLOWE   A. YD  HIS  WIFE 

fused  reports  indicate  that  Sionos  was  a  war 
rior,  and  lived  in  the  hill -country  beyond 
Athens,  while  Rhodope  had  left  him  for  love 
of  her  art  and  had  settled  in  Corinth.  He  be 
came  jealous  of  her  fame,  and  angry  at  her 
long  absence,  and  sent  her  word  that  she  was 
no  wife  of  his.  Yet  she  would  not  return,  and, 
instead,  vowed  that  she  was  wedded  to  her  art, 
but  that  if  she  did  join  hands  with  any  man  it 
would  be  with  Phaon  of  Helioskios,  a  sculptor 
like  herself.  Sionos  thereupon  sent  word  that 
she  might  straightway  carve  her  own  urn,  as 
the  day  of  her  rejoicing  was  at  its  end.  But 
here  the  legend  stops.  I  think  that  Sionos 
either  came  himself  and  slew  Rhodope,  or  sent 
some  one  to  poison  her  ;  but  Herwegh  declares 
that  she  served  her  art  and  her  happiness, 
and  foiled  Sionos,  by  going  to  Syracuse  with 
Phaon,  and  lived  joyously  there  in  that  great 
and  wealthy  city. 

I  have  thought  often  of  Rhodope's  story.  I 
wonder  how  much  of  it  is  true.  Do  you  know, 
it  is  not  all  fancy  on  my  part,  or  mere  flattery 
on  that  of  Herwegh,  to  say  that  there  is  a 


A   FELLOWE   AND  HIS  WIFE  203 

strong  resemblance  between  her  work  and  my 
own.  I  am  impressed  by  this  more  than  I  can 
well  say.  Are  the  old  stories  true  ?  Do  we, 
indeed,  re-live  our  lives  in  varying  circum 
stances  ?  And  if  so,  am  I  Rhodope,  indeed, 
though  a  Prussian  Grdfin  in  Rome,  instead  of 
an  Athenian  lady  in  Corinth  or  Syracuse  ?  Ah 
no,  for  Graf  Odo  Jaromar  is  a  very  different 
person  from  the  barbarian  Sionos  ;  and,  be 
sides,  this  Rhodope  does  not  wish  to  stay 
always  in  Corinth,  —  that  is,  Rome.  If  Syra 
cuse,  otherwise  Paris,  call  her  one  way,  the 
valleys  of  Helicon,  otherwise  Riigen,  call  her 
the  other  ! 

But  I  forgot  to  tell  you  that  after  condemning 
my  wretched  little  flower-statuettes,  Herwegh 
(who  nevertheless  still  thinks  that  carving  in 
ivory  is  my  metier)  assured  me  that  I  must 
adopt  an  altogether  freer  method  in  my  work. 
He  has  forbidden  me  to  touch  the  chisel  at  all 
just  now,  except  to  finish  my  commissioned 
Undine.  The  Emilia  Viviani  he  says  prom 
ised  splendidly,  but '  is  spoilt  by  what  I  had 
vainly  hoped  was  refinement,  but  which  he 


2O4  A    FELLOWE   AND  HIS  WIFE 


justly  calls  mere  prettiness  ;  and  so  I  have 
heroically  —  for  it  caused  me  a  pang —  demol 
ished  it  also.  All  the  same,  I  hope  for  a  true 
success  with  the  Emilia  that  is  in  my  mind. 
Well,  I  am  to  model  roughly  and  on  a  large 
scale,  rather  over  than  under  life-size.  And 
thus  it  is  that  I  am  working  in  the  rough  (of 
course  at  Herwegh's  studio,  for  it  would  be 
impracticable  here)  at  two  figures,  one  a  Ha 
madryad,  and  the  other  a  Young  Shepherd. 
Both  are  of  the  same  model,  the  beautiful  boy 
I  saw  on  the  Campagna  one  day  —  you  will 
remember  my  telling  you  about  him  ?  Her- 
wegh  went  searching  till  he  found  him,  ar 
ranged  with  him  and  his  shepherd-father,  and 
so  each  morning,  except  domenicas  and  special 
festas,  in  walks  through  this  southern  side  of 
Rome,  from  the  Porta  Furba,  my  shy,  hand 
some  Giovan'  Antonio,  or  Vanni  simply,  as 
his  parents  call  him.  Poor  boy,  he  was  so  shy 
at  having  to  pose  as  a  model,  though  many  of 
his  fellow  contadini  do  so.  Herwegh  laughed, 
and  said  he  would  soon  get  over  that  ;  but  as 
yet  it  is  quite  pathetic  to  see  how  his  large 


A   FELLOWE  AND  HIS  WIFE  205 

brown-black  eyes  wander  with  a  strange  appre 
hensive  look  from  Herwegh's  beautiful  Venus 
Anadyomene  and  Lilith  and  his  unfinished 
Sin  (a  lovely  and  seductive  female  figure 
modeled  with  extraordinary  grace  and  power, 
and  with  marvelous  winsomeness  of  expres 
sion)  to  me,  and  then  to  the  inchoate  clay  that 
is  slowly  taking  shape  under  my  hands,  then 
again  to  me,  then  to  Herwegh  and  his  Sin, 
and  so  over  and  over.  Once,  when  Herwegh 
was  out,  for  he  does  not  allow  a  model  to  speak 
a  word  during  a  sitting,  I  asked  Vanni  if  he 
were  happy.  "  No,"  he  said,  with  a  kind  of 
stern  candor,  "  I  am  chill  sitting  here  like  this, 
and  my  heart  burns  with  anger  when  he,  il 
scultore  tedesco,  makes  me  stand  naked  on  yon 
der  wooden  block  —  before  —  before  you  and 
—  and  —  these  other  women."  I  could  not 
help  smiling  at  my  being  thus  associated  with 
Venus  and  Lilith.  I  do  believe  the  boy  thinks 
they  are  as  much  alive  as  I  am  !  I  tried  to 
explain  ;  but  he  turned  his  great  eyes  on  me, 
and  asked  with  a  bewildering  simplicity,  "  Have 
you  told  Mary  the  most  pure  and  most  blessed 


2O6  A   FELLOWE  AND  HIS  WIFE 

Mother  of  God  that  you  sit  here  daily  and  look 
at  these  shameless  women,  and  that  you  take 
clay  and  make  an  image  of  me  for  —  for  —  ah, 
Dio  mio,  I  know  not  what !  "  and  here  the 
strange  youth  broke  down  with  a  momentary 
nervous  sob,  and  crossed  himself  at  least  thrice. 
But,  none  the  less,  I  am  getting  on.  I  am 
working  at  this  Hamadryad  and  Young  Shep 
herd  with  a  sense  of  freedom  and  vigor 
such  as  I  have  never  known  before.  It  does 
not  matter  how  roughly  I  model  them,  Her- 
wegh  says  :  anything,  so  long  as  I  do  not 
make  them  neat  and  dainty  and  pretty.  "  A 
work  of  art  without  breadth  of  treatment  is, 
essentially,  a  contradiction  in  terms  ;  "  this  is 
the  text  of  many  a  serviceable  lesson  he  has 
given  me. 

Later. 

I  left  oE  writing  to  go  for  a  giro,  as  they  say 
here.  Sometimes  I  grow  so  restless  that  you 
would  scarce  know  me.  I  cannot  even  listen 
long  to  music.  If  in  company,  I  am  bored ; 
if  alone,  I  am  weary.  Perhaps  it  is  due  to  the 
sirocco  ;  we  have  had  so  much  of  it  the  last 


A   FELLOWE  AND  HIS  WIFE  2-O/ 

week  or  two,  and  the  Romans  declare  that  in 
a  bad  sirocco  one  expends  two  breaths  of 
vigorous  life  for  each  whiff  of  relaxing  air  one 
inhales.  And  yet,  to-day  at  any  rate,  it  is  not 
a  wet  or  gloomy  sirocco,  and  the  atmosphere 
is  of  a  lovely,  silvery,  delicate  pearl-gray.  I 
went  out  and  stood  for  some  time  leaning  on 
the  terrace  over  the  Spanish  Stairs.  Rome 
looked  so  remotely  beautiful ;  a  city  of  dream. 
The  Janiculum  and  Monte  Mario  were  darkly 
gray,  but  the  rest  of  the  city  was  in  tone  like 
a  vast  moonstone  or  opal  looked  at  through 
gauze.  It  was  all  so  silent  to  me.  Two  little 
boys,  disengaged  models,  in  exaggeratedly  pic 
turesque  costumes,  were  gambling  with  cen- 
tesimi  on  one  of  the  steps  beneath  me,  and 
further  away  a  girl  and  an  older  woman,  clad 
in  vividly  bright  yellow  and  orange-barred 
shawls,  and  with  thick  red,  white,  and  blue 
serge  aprons,  exchanged  confidences.  Beyond 
the  sudden  sharp  cries  of  the  boys  and  the 
hum  of  the  women's  talk,  I  was  scarce  con 
scious  of  other  sounds.  Some  distance  away 
to  my  right  I  could  of  course  catch  the  tinkling 


208  A   FELLOWE   AND  HIS  WIFE 

fall  of  the  Accademia  Fontana,  and  below  me 
I  could  see  and  hear  the  splash  of  the  great 
fountain  in  the  Piazza ;  but  both  those  sounds 
were  part  of  the  dream.  All  the  usual  traffic 
seemed  to  be  at  a  standstill,  or  the  noise  of  it 
to  be  muffled  by  the  breath  of  the  sirocco. 

Then  I  went  down  the  Spanish  Stairs,  and 
hesitated  awhile  whether  to  drive  to  the  Jani- 
culum  or  to  the  Villa  Borghese.  I  did  neither, 
but,  after  having  seated  myself  in  my  little 
open  vettura,  and  given  myself  keen  pleasure 
by  simply  loading  the  front  seat  with  winter 
roses  and  camellias  and  long  sprays  of  yel 
low  wattle  from  the  Riviera,  drove  out  to  the 
Ponte  Molle,  across  the  Tiber  (which  gleamed 
like  a  long  broad  ribbon  of  shot  silk,  mostly 
silver  gray),  and  then  back  and  round  by 
what  was  Antemnse  in  the  old  Etrurian  days. 
There  are  few  flowers  anywhere  in  that  part 
of  Rome,  even  in  April,  and  yet  the  air  was 
full  of  exquisite  fragrances.  I  am,  as  you 
know,  very  sensitive  to  odors,  the  subtle  half- 
hidden  scents  of  shadow-loving  plants,  the 
delicate  thrills  of  perfume  from  wild  growing 


A   FELLOWE   AND  HIS  WIFE  209 

things,  and  perhaps  above  all  to  the  intoxi 
cating  breath  of  the  earth  when  the  sun  steeps 
it  in  hot  light,  that  strange  smell  as  of  the 
living  body  of  the  world.  Just  before  enter 
ing  the  Porto  di  San  Popolo  a  whim  took  me 
to  drive  up  the  gloomy  Via  dell'  Mura.  I  wish 
I  had  not  gone.  It  was  desolate,  and  dark 
and  chill.  I  don't  know  what  could  have 
made  me  so  depressed.  Don't  laugh  at  me 
when  I  tell  you  that  the  stupid  tears  at  last 
came  to  my  eyes.  How  I  dislike  camellias  — 
melancholy  deathly  flowers !  Besides,  they 
have  neither  fragrance  nor  pleasant  associa 
tions  ;  they  always  seem  to  me  as  if  they  had 
been  made,  and  had  not  grown  as  other  flowers 
grow.  Before  we  drove  in  at  the  Porta  S. 
Pancrazio  I  threw  them  all  away  —  everything 
except  the  sweet  smelling  wattle-sprays. 

And  now  I  am  going  to  bed  ;  I  am  tired. 
But  I  am  feeling  better.  Such  a  charming 
note  from  my  friend  awaited  me.  I  am  to  try 
my  hand  at  portraiture  to-morrow,  for  poor 
Vanni  is  unwell  and  can't  come  in  to  Rome 
for  a  week.  Herwegh  suggests  that  I  try  to 


210  A   FELL  OWE  AND  HIS   WIFE 

model  his  head  and  features  in  the  guise  of 
Phaon,  and  he  will  do  me  as  Rhodope.  I  look 
for  a  happy  week's  work  —  for  we  shall  have 
the  studio  to  ourselves  for  at  any  rate  the  first 
five  days. 

I  shall  be  too  busy  to  write,  perhaps,  so  you 
know  what  to  think  if  you  do  not  hear  from 
me  soon.  Addio, 

Your  affectionate  but  tired 

ILSE. 

P.  S.  A  letter  has  just  come  from  Lucrezia 
Mallerini.  I  am  not  going  to  open  it.  I  shall 
either  return  it,  or  destroy  it.  Do  you  think 
I  am  right  or  foolish  ? 


XXIII 

FROM  THE  SAME  TO  THE  SAME. 

Palazzo  Malaspina. 

THIS  is  the  third  letter  to  you  I  have  begun 
within  the  past  hour.  The  others  are  torn  up 

—  as  this  may  shortly  be. 

How  am  I  to  tell  you  ?  What  am  I  to  tell 
you?  I  would  give  —  oh,  God  knows  what  I 
would  give  to  be  able  to  avert  this  bitter  pain 
from  you. 

Odo  —  Odo  —  you  are  still  my  best  friend  ! 
Can  you  help  me  ?  No  one  else  can.  Oh, 
how  am  I  to  tell  you  ?  What  can  I  say  ?  I 
have  had  a  terrible  shock.  But  oh,  the  pain, 
the  pain  at  my  heart  ! 

But  you  must  know,  and  from  me  ;  it  is  un 
avoidable.  Gladly  would  I  bury  it  all,  and  for 
get  it,  and  Rome,  and  all  that  has  happened 

—  but  I  cannot,  I  cannot.     I   could   never   re 
spect  myself ;  no,  I  could  never  even  see  you 
again  if  I  were  to  be  silent  upon  this  misery  I 
have  brought  upon  myself. 


212  A   FELLOWE  AND  HIS  WIFE 

I  will  try  to  tell  you  all. 

You  will  see  I  shirk  nothing  when  I  tell  you 
at  once  that  the  past  week  —  till  yesterday  — 
has  been,  no,  I  could  not  even  then  call  it  the 
happiest,  and  yet  I  have  no  other  word  for  it, 
unless  I  say  the  most  thrilling  week  in  my 
life.  I  rose  each  morning  as  if  the  world  were 
a  beautiful  dream,  and  it  needed  but  the  ex 
ercise  of  creative  will  on  my  part  to  make  it  a 
reality.  From  the  outset  I  made  such  pro 
gress  with  my  sculpture  that  I  was  almost 
startled  at  what  I  felt  within  me,  at  the  new 
and  triumphant  power  that  seemed  to  be  shap 
ing  every  thought  in  my  mind  and  guiding 
every  touch  of  my  fingers.  Even  when  I  was 
not  working,  the  hours  passed  as  though  they 
were  minutes.  We  went  everywhere  together  ; 
we  were  always  together.  I  saw  none  of  my 
friends,  and  even  Lilien  Rohrich  left  me  un 
disturbed  when  she  perceived  how  preoccu 
pied  I  was.  In  the  evenings  we  strolled  to 
and  fro  beneath  the  ilexes  of  the  Accademia 
Fontana,  and  talked  of  all  things,  and  above 
all  of  our  work,  and  what  we  were  to  do,  and 


A    FELL  OWE   AND   HIS  WIFE  21$ 


alas  !  of  Paris,  and  what  lay  awaiting  us  in  the 
near  future,  all  unseen  and  unguessed  even. 
Sometimes  he  came  home  with  me,  and  we 
spent  hours  reading  Ahasuer,  and  imagining 
some  illustrations  and  outlining  others. 

Yesterday  I  went  to  his  studio  as  usual. 
Vanni  was  at  the  door.  He  asked  me  if  // 
Tedesco  were  ill  or  angry,  because  he  had  told 
him  to  go  away,  to  return  towards  evening. 
I  said  a  few  kind  words,  and  arranged  a  sitting 
for  next  day,  and  then  went  in. 

He  was  singularly  reserved,  and  after  our 
greetings  were  over  I  began  my  work  in  si 
lence.  A  little  later  I  heard  a  curtain  drawn, 
and  looked  round.  There  I  saw  a  bust  of 
myself,  though  in  every  way  beyond  me  in 
its  strange  beauty.  It  was  Rhbdope.  On  the 
floor  lay  the  fragments  of  what  had  been 
Phaon.  "  That  clumsy  Vanni  did  it,  Use,  but 
it  does  not  matter.  Here  I  am,  I,  your  Phaon. 
Which  is  it  to  be  ?  Shall  we  go  to  our  Syra 
cuse,  or  do  we  stay  in  this  Corinth,  and  " 
and  he  pointed  to  the  broken  bust  and  strewn 
fragments  — "  and  you  be  responsible  for  this  !  " 


214  A   FELLOWE   AND  HIS  WIFE 

I  cannot  tell  you  what  happened  thereafter. 
God  knows  with  what  pain  you  have  already 
guessed  it  all.  And  I  spare  you  what  I  would 
fain  spare  myself  in  remembrance. 

I  was  swept  away  by  his  burning  words,  by 
his  golden  promises,  by  the  rapturous  hope 
and  passion  in  his  eyes.  And  oh,  Odo,  I  did 
love  him.  Forgive  me,  but  I  cannot  keep  it 
from  you.  It  may  not  have  been  the  deepest, 
the  truest  love  ;  it  may  all  have  been  fore 
doomed  to  failure ;  I  cannot  say,  —  I  know 
nothing, — for  I  am  blind  and  deaf  and  dumb 
in  my  misery. 

Before  I  left  the  studio  I  had  promised  to 
go  away  to  Paris  with  him  ;  to  begin  a  new 
life  there  ;  and  to  forget  that  I  had  ever  been 
Use  Jaro —  no,  I  dare  not  say  it  —  to  forget 
that  I  had  ever  been  the  Use  whom  you  and 
the  dear  ones  in  that  distant,  distant  north 
had  loved  and  trusted. 

I  would  not  let  him  go  out  with  me.  I 
wanted  to  be  alone. 

When  I  reached  the  corner  of  the  Vicolo  da 
Tolentino  I  saw  a  woman  standing,  waiting  for 


A   FELLOWS   AND   HIS  WIFE  21$ 

me,  watching  me.  It  was  Lucrezia  Mallerini. 
In  a  moment,  in  a  flash,  it  came  to  me  with 
sickening  dread,  and  yet  I. know  not  also  what 
sudden  exaltation,  that  she  was  the  messenger 
of  Sonios.  Never,  never,  never  for  Rhodope, 
the  faithless  wife,  that  future  of  which  she  had 
dreamed. 

No  one  meeting  us  would  have  guessed  the 
dreadful  thing  that  was  all  about  us.  Her 
eyes  flamed  at  me  out  of  her  white  face.  We 
did  not  speak,  but  walked  on  together.  There 
was  no  need  to  speak  —  till  we  were  in  my 
room. 

The  first  thing  she  said  to  me  when  we  en 
tered,  and  I  had  closed  the  door,  was  :  "  Now, 
will  you  listen  to  me  ?  "  I  had  guessed  her 
secret  before  this,  of  course  ;  deep  down  in  my 
heart  I  suppose  I  have  known  it  ever  since 
Christmas.  "  What  is  it  you  want  with  me  ?  " 
I  demanded.  Her  answer  was  another  ques 
tion  :  "  Why  have  you  refused  of  late  to  see 
me  ?  Why  did  you  return  my  letter  un 
opened  ? "  I  looked  at  her  steadily,  before  I 
spoke  again  :  "  I  suppose  you  loved  him,  and 
now  hate  him  because  he  loves  me" 


2l6  A    FELLOWE   AND   HIS  WIFE 

She  flung  some  letters  on  the  table  before 
me,  and  with  a  harsh  laugh  said :  "  You  fool, 
you  believe,  no  doubt,  that  he  loves  you  as  he 
has  never  loved  any  woman  ?  What  is  it  he 
wants  with  you  ?  is  it  to  be  Sicily,  or  Venice, 
or  Vienna,  or  Paris  ? "  When  she  added  bit 
terly,  "  He  always  spends  these  visits  at  one 
of  them,  Paris  preferably,"  I  think  that  if  I 
could  have  killed  her  by  my  will,  I  would  have 
done  so  then  and  there. 

I  laughed  at  her — told  her  that  she  was 
utterly  mistaken  if  she  thought  she  could 
come  between  us  ;  and  said  I  know  not  what 
other  wild  and  wicked  and  foolish  thing. 

Lucrezia  stared  at  me.  "Do  you  know," 
she  said  at  last,  slowly,  "  if  I  thought  there 
were  the  faintest  chance  that  you  two  should 
still  go  away  together,  I  should  kill  him  —  or 
you."  I  did  not  answer,  and  she  went  on  : 
"  It  would  be  needless  to  tell  you  what  all  men 
know  of  him,  what  even  your  good  friends, 
the  Heideloffs,  can  verify ;  but  I  shall  speak 
to  you  of  two  women  whom  he  has  ruined. 
Nay,  you  must  listen  ;  yes,  though  you  should 


A   FELLOWE   AND  HIS  WIFE  21? 

die  in  the  listening.  You  have  doubtless 
heard  the  name  of  one,  Olivia  Czlemka,  the 
wife  of  the  Polish  patriot.  The  usual  end 
came  ;  the  place,  in  her  case,  was  Paris.  Isi- 
dof  Czlemka,  who  had  forfeited  everything  for 
her  sake,  shot  himself.  I  forget  how  long  it 
lasted  ;  it  does  not  matter.  As  for  her  vicis 
situdes,  after  she  was  left  to  face  shame  and 
disaster,  they  were  not  much  worse  than  might 
be  expected  ;  that  is,  for  a  time.  Then  she 
sank,  plumb  down  into  the  depths  ;  and  in  Paris, 
—  well,  in  Paris  the  depths  have  no  bottom." 

When  Lucrezia  stopped  and  drew  a  long 
breath,  I  was  sick  with  horror.  Already  some 
dreadful  instinct  told  me  that  she  was  speak 
ing  the  truth.  I  made  a  sign  to  her  at  last 
to  go  on,  if  go  on  she  must.  "  Signora  von 
Jaromar,"  and  the  tone  of  her  voice  terrified 
me,  —  "  Signora  von  Jaromar,  I  tell  you  that 
Olivia  Czlemka  was,  when  she  first  came  to 
Rome,  my  dearest  friend.  And  now  I  have 
to  confide  to  you  the  story  of  another  woman. 
She  is,  perhaps,  the  most  mad  fool  of  all,  for 
she  loves  him  still.  Do  you  know  what  he 


2l8  A   FELLOWE   AND  HIS  WIFE 


is  ?  He  is,  as  the  great  sculptor,  one  of  the 
best  of  men  :  all  that  is  good  in  him  comes 
out  there.  As  the  man  of  the  world,  he  has 
a  heart  that  is  as  a  corpse,  that  can  neither 
see,  nor  hear,  nor  feel. 

"  This  woman  was  the  betrothed  wife  of 
a  Neapolitan  count.  But,  for  his  sake,  she 
broke  off  the  marriage  at  the  last  moment. 
Her  father  died  ultimately,  broken-hearted. 
Before  he  died  he  saw  her  married  to  the 
wealthy  Florentine,  the  sixty-years  old  mer 
chant,  Paolo  di  Paoli.  But  in  the  second  year 
of  her  marriage  she  met  him  at  Bagni  di 
Lucca.  She  never  went  back  to  Florence, 
nor  to  the  old  man  who  cursed  her  to  the 
last.  He  took  her  to  Venice.  It  was  the 
happiest  year  of  her  life.  Yet  not  a  year, 
because  before  the  end  of  it  he  had  tired  of 
her.  He  is  nearly  always  kind  and  gentle, 
when  it  is  to  his  pleasure.  As  a  gentleman  — 
it  is  he  who  calls  himself  so  —  he  prides  him 
self  upon  his  tact  and  forbearance.  I  suppose 
that  when  he  struck  this  woman,  in  Milano, 
where  she  had  followed  him,  it  was  because 


A   FELLOWE   AND  HIS  WIFE  219 

his  self-possession  had  momentarily  forsaken 
him  in  the  shock  of  finding  that  a  woman's 
desperation  could  survive  insult  and  desertion. 

"She  did  not  die;  she  followed  him  no 
further.  She  did  nothing  heroic.  She  had  a 
widowed  sister  at'  Bologna,  whither  she  went. 
A  year  and  a  half  passed.  One  day,  on  the 
occasion  of  a  ball  to  celebrate  a  great  national 
event,  a  Roman  gentleman  of  high  rank  was 
struck  by  her  beauty  —  a  beauty  which, 
strangely  enough,  had  grown  and  not  waned 
since  her  Venice-madness.  He  saw  her  again 
and  again  ;  and,  in  the  end,  he  married  her. 
To  this  day  he  does  not  know  but  that  he 
married  the  unmarried  sister  of  the  widowed 
Lucia  Vescovi  of  Bologna. 

"  They  went  to  live  in  Rome.  She  was 
almost  happy  again.  She  had  a  child,  but  it 
died.  Before  its  birth  she  met  him  again.  He 
had  settled  in  Rome.  She  was  fool  enough  to 
believe  that  at  least  a  friendship  might  be 
between  them.  He  told  her  —  and  perhaps  it 
was  true  —  that  he  was  ashamed  of  his  past; 
that  he  was  going  to  devote  himself  absolutely 


22O  A    PEL  LOWE   AND   HIS   WIFE 


to  his  art  ;  that  he  had  great  dreams  and  high 
hopes  ;  that  his  manhood  was  to  redeem  his 
youth. 

"  But  the  end  was  just  the  same  :  of  course. 
His  passion  was  born  anew.  He  said  that  it 
had  never  perished,  but  he  lied.  And  she  — 
what  would  you  ?  She  had  never  loved  any 
one  else.  After  a  time  her  husband  grew 
suspicious  of  his  sculptor-friend.  He  waited 
his  opportunity  ;  and  found  it.  Then  there 
was  a  duel.  But  before  this  "  —  when  she 
had  gone  thus  far,  Lucrezia  abruptly  stopped. 
I  knew  quite  well  now  what  she  was  about  to 
say,  but  I  waited. 

"  But  before  this  happened,  Use  Jaromar," 
—  and  though  her  voice  was  like  the  hissing 
of  a  serpent,  it  seemed  to  me  to  resound  deaf- 
eningly  from  every  nook  and  corner- — " be 
fore  this,  he  found  that  he  could  again  treat 
Lucrezia  Mallerini  with  insult  and  neglect  and 
mockery  and  even  brutality  ;  and  why  ?  Be 
cause  you  had  come  in  his  way.  I  stood  be 
tween  you  and  him,  therefore  I  had  to  suffer  ; 
and  now  you,  who  have  in  mind  and  word 


A   FELLOWE   AND   HIS  WIFE  221 

at  least  betrayed  your  husband,  what  are  you 
going  to  do  ?  Is  it  to  be  Venice  or  Paris  over 
again  ? " 

But  enough,  Odo.  I  have  forced  myself  to 
write  every  burning  word  thus  far,  but  now 
I  may  spare  myself  —  and  you.  I  did  not 
doubt  for  a  moment.  I  knew  it  to  be  true. 
The  letters  she  thrust  into  my  hands  I  read 
mechanically  yet  understandingly  ;  shameful, 
selfish,  horrible  letters.  There  was  one  — not 
to  Lucrezia,  but  to  that  other  woman  ;  I  don't 
know  why  it  came  to  be  there  ;  she  was  an  ar 
tist  too,  I  saw  —  wherein  he  used  the  same 
words  of  love,  urged  almost  the  same  pleas, 
as  he  had  done  with  me. 

I  grew  sick  with  the  horror  of  it  all.  Per 
haps  it  is  that  women  of  the  North  are  differ 
ent  from  those  of  the  South ;  but  I  could  not 
unbend,  or  give  way  either  to  my  shame  or  to 
my  agony  of  sorrow  swallowed  up  in  passionate 
indignation.  I  said  to  her  simply  that  I  did 
not  love  this  man ;  that,  before  God,  I  would 
never  speak  with  him  again,  not  even  look  at 
him  if  it  were  in  my  power  to  avoid  even  that 


222  A    FELLOWE   AND   HIS  WIFE 

degradation.  She  believed  me.  She  burst 
into  a  passion  of  tears.  I  could  not  have  wept 
one  tear  though  my  soul's  redemption  had  de 
pended  thereon.  But  at  last  she  rose.  Before 
she  said  farewell  —  for  we  shall  never  see  each 
other  again,  never,  never — she  asked  me  when 
and  where  he  and  I  had  arranged  to  meet  that 
evening.  I  told  her.  It  was  under  the  shadow 
of  the  ilex  avenue,  beyond  that  hateful  Acca- 
demia  Fontana  with  its  treacherous  whispering 
music.  "And  you  will  not  go?"  were  her  last 
words. 

And  now,  Odo  Jaromar  —  Odo,  my  best 
friend  —  Odo,  who  have  given  me  your  honor, 
that  I  might  slur  it ;  your  name,  that  I  might 
shame  it ;  your  trust,  that  I  might  shatter  it ; 
here,  now,  all  is  at  an  end  between  us. 

It  would  have  been  simpler  to  have  sent  you, 
as  I  at  first  wrote,  the  briefest  line,  but  I  could 
not,  coward  though  I  was  and  am.  Perhaps 
another  woman  would  have  sent  for  you,  told 
you  something  or  all,  and  thrown  herself  upon 
your  forgiveness  !  As  you  well  know,  the  Use 
whom  you  once  loved  is  not  such  a  woman. 


A   FELLOWE   AND  HIS  WIFE  22 3 

I  give  you  back  your  name.  I  have  never 
been  worthy  of  it.  Now,  I  would  not  bear  it 
though  you  were  dead  and  it  were  mine 
whether  I  would  or  not. 

I  shall  be  here  a  little  time  yet,  for  I  am 
not  well.  Then  I  shall  go  away,  to  England, 
I  think.  No  one  shall  know  my  name  or 
whereabouts  except  my  father.  It  is  the  one 
thing  I  ask  of  you,  do  not  let  him  know  all. 

And  so,  now,  all  is  at  an  end.     Our  hopes 

—  but    no,   there   is    no  "  ours "   for  me  any 
more.     You  called  me  —  not  long  ago,  though 
God  knows  how  long  ago  it  seems  to  me  now 

—  a  child,  a  foolish  girl.     There  is  no  longer 
any   girlhood    in    the    broken-hearted   woman 
who  writes  this  letter  to  you. 

And  so,  once  more,  good-by.  Perhaps  you 
will  think  it  only  too  characteristic  of  me 
when  you  see  that  my  last  wish  is  —  not  for 
you,  the  noblest  and  truest  man  I  have  ever 
known  or  shall  know,  but  for  those  with^whom 
I  have  sinned  —  that  further  evil  and  misery 
may  not  come  out  of  this  thing.  More  I  can 
not  suffer,  for  the  agony  is  not  of  the  body. 


224  A    FELLOWE   AND   HIS  WIFE 

After  all,  let  my  last  wish  be  for  you. 
There  is  one  near  you,  a  bright,  beautiful,  and 
pure  life.  Is  it  not  a  worthier  one  for  you 
than  ever  mine  could  have  been  ? 

I  am  very  tired. 

ILSE  VON  ILSENSTEIN. 


XXIV 

FROM  THE  COUNT   TO   COUNTESS  VON  JAROMAR. 

Schloss  Jaromar, 

January  29. 

ILSE,  my  poor  Use,  do  you  think  I  am  not 
near  you  in  your  wretchedness  ?  Do  you 
think  I  do  not  know  ?  Do  you  for  an  instant 
suppose  that  your  pitiful  last  letter  can  be  a 
revelation  —  that  I  have  been  silent  all  this 
time  because  cheerfully  occupied  with  riding 
and  smoking  and  reading,  and  improving  my 
farmers'  and  fishermen's  minds  with  lectures 
and  stereoscopic  views  ?  Can  you  believe 
that  I  left  you  to  your  fate  like  a  little  rudder 
less  boat  in  an  angry  sea  ?  Dear  heart  —  no, 
I  have  not  done  that.  I  was  stupid  and  un 
conscious  too  long,  and  afterwards  I  may  have 
acted  like  a  fool  or  a  madman,  but  I  did  not 
desert  you,  even  when  I  believed  the  worst. 
I  was  there.  I  came  to  you.  I  saw,  heard, 
and  understood  for  myself.  I  spoke  face  to 


226  A   FELLOWE   AND  HIS  WIFE 

face  with  that  man.  I  did  what  I  could.  And 
when  all  was  over,  when  I  had  satisfied  myself 
that  you  were  safe,  then,  although  I  had  come 
so  far,  wounded  to  the  death,  believing  I  had 
lost  you,  mad  for  one  word  or  look  from  you, 
though  it  were  the  last,  not  knowing  what  was 
still  possible,  but  vaguely  bent  upon  rescuing 
you,  if  not  for  me  at  least  for  yourself;  and 
although  I  saw  you,  Use,  stood  in  the  shadow 
opposite  your  palace  and  watched  you  sitting 
motionless  and  desolate  at  your  high  window, 
and  my  heart  was  torn  with  longing  and  pity  and 
love,  still  I  could  not,  I  would  not  come  to  you. 
It  is  incredible,  but  something  hard  and  impla 
cable  rose  within  me,  a  stubborn  resentment 
for  the  suffering  of  months  crowned  by  the 
torture  of  the  final  week.  "  Let  her  come  to 
me  if  she  wants  me,"  I  thought.  "  Let  her 
seek  me.  Now  it  is  her  turn  !  "  And  because 
I  felt  impelled  to  emerge  from  that  black 
shadow,  swiftly  cross  the  dusky  street  and 
little  distance  between  us,  run  up  your  palace 
stairway  two  steps  at  a  time,  enter  softly  with 
out  knocking,  find  you  in  your  sadness  and 


A   FELLOWE  AND  HIS  WIFE  22 J 

self-reproach,  take  you  silently  in  my  arms, 
and,  without  a  word,  let  you  feel  that  I  com 
prehended,  that  no  explanations  were  needed, 
that  I  loved  you,  and  that  we  two  together 
would  brave  all  old  and  haunting  memories, 
all  pitfalls  of  time  and  fate  in  the  future,  and 
find  strength  and  peace  in  our  alliance  ;  that 
one  could  not  abandon  the  other  whatever 
came  ;  because  I  felt  all  this,  and  more,  a 
thousand  times  more,  overpowering  me  like  a 
hurricane,  I  turned  and  fled  as  if  demons  were 
pursuing.  I  got  my  things  together,  barely 
reached  the  late  express,  rolled  myself  in  my 
rug  in  a.  corner  of  the  carriage,  glared  like  a 
demented  person  at  all  intruders,  and  it  was 
only  after  I  had  been  steaming  northward  for 
hours,  that  I  came  to  my  senses.  Then  I  saw 
what  a  brute  I  had  been.  My  heart  melted 
like  wax,  and  every  instant,  like  a  lost  paradise, 
I  saw  that  sweet,  dark,  still  shape  at  the  win 
dow  —  an  innocent  and  ardent  woman  in  her 
remorse  and  self-abasement,  whom  I  might 
perhaps  have  comforted  and  would  not  com 
fort,  being  stubborn  and  relentless.  Be  satis- 


228  A   FELLOWE  AND  HIS  WIFE 

fied,  I  have  atoned  for  it.  I  have  suffered 
torments  ever  since  for  my  lost  chance.  To 
think  that  I  left  my  poor  little  Use  alone, 
mourning  for  her  broken  idols  ! 

But  you  will  not  understand.  I  must  try 
to  tell  you  the  whole  story.  First,  one  word 
in  reply  to  this  heart-broken  gallant  letter  of 
yours.  Not  in  years  can  I  answer  it  fully.  My 
life  shall  be  my  real  response.  See,  Use  ;  it 
was  detestable  of  me  to  be  in  Rome  without 
going  to  you,  but  it  was  this  that  I  craved, 
this  that  has  come  ;  a  turning  to  me  after  evil 
days  —  a  cry  from  your  heart  after  long  in 
difference,  the  proof  that  you  wanted  and 
needed  me ;  that  was  all,  never  mind  in  what 
words  you  put  it,  never  mind  what  led  to 
it.  I  was  ready  to  die  for  you,  but  I  could  sue 
no  longer  for  your  love.  Forgive  me,  Use 
Some  day  you  will  better  understand  the  heart 
of  a  man,  and  what  a  hot,  pained,  angry  thing 
mine  was  that  night,  with  a  dumb  sense  of 
deadly  outrage  too,  although  never  think  you 
were  to  blame  for  that  —  you  could  not  have 
helped  —  but  we  will  speak  of  that  later. 


A    FELLOWE  AND   HIS  WIFE  229 

To-night,  as  I  look  back,  it  is  all  like  a 
wild  dream  :  the  rapid  journey,  the  cities  fly 
ing  past,  the  excitement,  misery,  doubt,  the 
shadowy  Roman  streets  by  night ;  and  since 
my  return,  the  strain  and  suspense  of  waiting 
here  —  my  soul's  weal  and  woe  in  the  balance 
—  for  your  first  word  which  should  show  me 
whether  your  instinctive  movement  was  to 
ward  me  or  away  from  me  forever.  All  that 
went  before  was  child's  play  compared  to  this. 
Here  was  the  crisis,  the  trembling,  crucial 
moment,  in  which  our  day  should  dawn  or 
sink  into  gloom.  For  if  you  had  really  loved 
him  —  but  this  can  wait. 

You  turned  to  me,  to  me  alone,  in  your 
bitterest  grief.  You  stretched  your  hands 
toward  me  with  the  old  trust,  and  now  it 
is  still  and  solemn  in  my  heart  after  the 
tumult.  It  is  still  here  in  my  study.  I  hear 
the  slow  waves  falling  with  a  kind  of  muffled 
thud  on  the  strand.  I  can  begin  to  think  like 
a  sane  man,  and  to  remember  the  sequence  of 
things,  now  that  your  letter  has  come  and  the 
heavens  are  opened. 


230  A   FELLOWE  AND   HIS  WIFE 

It  was  the  Rhodope  letter  that  broke  me 
down  utterly.  For  weeks  I  had  been  strug 
gling  hard.  It  was  bad  enough  from  the  first. 
There  has  not  been  a  day  since  we  parted 
that  I  have  not  had  to  hold  myself  with  a 
powerful  grip,  —  like  Baldur  when  he  droops 
his  head,  takes  the  bit  in  his  teeth,  and  wants 
to  run,  — lest  I  should  break  away  in  spite  of 
myself  and  plunge  off  wildly  to  Rome.  Ah, 
Use,  the  theories  are  all  good,  the  rights  are 
incontrovertible,  the  old  system  was  bondage 
and  degradation,  the  new  promises  help  and 
growth  to  humanity,  —  but  what  a  man  loves 
he  wants  near,  and  when  he  longs  to  clasp  his 
wife  in  his  arms,  he  cannot  still  his  heart- 
hunger  with  philosophy. 

It  was  a  prolonged  purgatory.  Telling  my 
self  you  would  tire  of  it  sooner  or  later,  I 
determined  to  hold  out.  I  worked  and  hoped 
to  gain  strength,  Antaeus-like,  from  the  touch 
of  mother  earth,  but  my  Jaromar  soil  and  its 
interests  could  not  appease  my  wild  longing 
for  that  distant  land  where  my  love  was  radi 
antly  happy  without  me.  Oh,  Use,  you  do  not 


A   FELLOWE   AND  HIS  WIFE  23 1 

understand,  no  woman  can  understand,  but 
there  have  been  devils  in  me.  Never  mind, 
that  is  past. 

How  often  have  I  pictured  arriving  in 
Rome,  thought  out  in  detail  all  the  results, 
and  resolved,  cost  me  what  it  would,  not  to 
take  this  false  step.  For  I  knew  too  well  that 
if  I  should  suddenly  appear,  you  would  be 
all  that  was  friendly,  sunny,  sweet  and  charm 
ing,  if  a  little  astonished  and  a  trifle  incon 
venienced,  and  that  after  a  couple  of  days  I 
should  become  a  positive  nuisance,  since  no 
thing  could  prevail  against  your  enthusiasm 
for  art,  and  your  indifference  toward  me  and 
all  else.  Besides,  Use,  at  first,  for  months  in 
deed,  in  spite  of  your  frank  interest  in  Her- 
wegh,  I  did  not  believe  you  loved  him.  I  took 
him  simply  as  another  odious  phase  of  the 
many-sided  art-cult  that  was  continually  sep 
arating  us,  something  to  be  temporarily  en 
dured  like  the  rest.  Not  even  your  disclosures 
from  Villa  Mallerini  (which  you  treated  with 
amazing  lightness,  significant  as  they  were) 
let  me  perceive  that  your  interest  in  this  man 


232  A   FELLOWE  AND  HIS  WIFE 

was  other  than  —  but  we  shall  have  time  for 
such  things  later. 

Nevertheless  with  the  villa  letters,  my  fever 
of  impatience  and  disgust  mounted  beyond 
endurance.  It  is  easy  to  say  now  that  I  ought 
to  have  known.  But  the  fact  is  I  did  not 
know.  You  see,  Use,  I  was  accustomed  to 
think  of  you  as  invulnerable  so  far  as  love  is 
concerned,  and  far  away  from  love's  inqui 
etude  :  not  cold,  oh  no,  but  —  unawakened. 
Never  mind  that  now.  I  will  tell  you  later 
what  I  thought. 

Then  like  a  thunderbolt  descended  upon  me 
the  Rhodope  fable,  which  you  related  with 
maddening  coolness  and  simplicity,  —  child, 
child,  how  could  you  ?  It  scattered  my  reso 
lutions  to  the  winds,  opened  my  dull  eyes, 
showed  me  with  one  flash  what  was  yawning 
before  you,  while  I,  fatuous  man  with  theories 
and  principles,  was  more  than  two  thousand 
miles  away. 

Then  at  least  I  lost  no  time,  not  an  instant ; 
as  quickly  as  was  humanly  possible  I  lessened 
that  appalling  distance  between  Jaromar  and 


A   FELLOWE   AND  HIS  WIFE  233 

Rome.  But  the  trains  crept  like  snails,  and 
I  was  consumed  with  helpless  rage  and  the 
worst  forebodings.  Ah,  those  nights  rattling 
on  miserably,  the  very  jar  and  rumble  of  the 
machinery  grinding  out  "  Rhodope  !  Rho- 
dope !  Rhodope ! "  while  in  brief  moments  of 
broken  sleep,  Rhodope,  Phaon,  Helicon,  and 
Paris  were  mingled  in  a  delirious  jumble,  and 
statues  of  men  with  snakes'  heads  reached  out 
marble  arms  to  seize  a  fair-haired  child  run 
ning  on  the  wind-swept  dunes  of  Jaromar. 

Well,  I  got  there  at  last.  I  sent  my  things 
to  a  hotel  and  went  straight  to  you.  I  had 
no  plans,  no  more  theories.  My  whole  being 
had  concentrated  itself  in  one  fiery  instinct 
to  take  you  in  my  arms  and  carry  you  off,  out 
of  danger,  away  from  the  enemy,  your  enemy, 
my  enemy,  and  to  crush  anything  that  got  in 
my  way. 

I  found  the  Palazzo  Malaspina  easily,  re 
membering  the  streets  well.  I  went  up  to 
your  rooms,  my  heart  beating  with  mighty 
throbs.  The  door*  was  ajar.  I  walked  in. 
There  in  that  tranquil  room,  full  of  you,  breath- 


234  A    FELLOWE   AND   HIS  WIFE 

ing  you,  fragrant  of  you,  I  think  I  must  have 
partly  recovered  my  senses. 

It  was  all  dusky  and  sweet.  There  was  a 
tall  standing  lamp  with  a  great  white  shade. 
There  were  books,  and  over  a  chair  hung 
something  soft  and  white, — a  scarf  or  shawl. 
There  were  roses  everywhere.  All  my  vio 
lence  was  gone.  "  Use  !  "  I  said  quite  timidly, 
imploringly.  No  answer.  I  went  on.  There 
was  another  room,  smaller  —  quite  white  — 
stiller.  A  lamp  with  a  deep  red  flame  hung 
on  silver  chains  high  in  the  corner  before  a 
clear-cut  marble  face. 

Oh,  Use,  Use,  if  you  could  understand !  It 
was  like  coming  from  hot  hell  into  a  shrine. 
It  is  stupid  and  hopeless  to  try  to  put  such 
things  into  words,  most  of  all  for  me,  for  I  am 
never  fluent.  But  perhaps  I  can  show  you  a 
faint  shadow  of  what  moved  me.  I  saw  the 
things  that  meant  you.  I  breathed  your  at 
mosphere.  I  had  come  so  far,  so  feverishly, 
so  full  of  passion  and  revenge.  Here  all  was 
still  and  chaste.  I  knew  k  was  like  you,  like 
your  inner  self.  I  don't  know  what  I  did.  I 


A   PEL  LOWE   AND  HIS  WIFE  235 

wept  hot  tears  on  your  pillow.  I  kissed  all 
the  silver  and  ivory  things  on  your  dressing- 
table.  I  breathed  all  those  indefinable  odors 
floating  like  tender  memories  about  me.  Oh, 
I  loved  you  so,  and  in  one  sense  I  had  never 
come  so  near  you.  There  were  some  loose 
faded  violets  on  the  table  by  your  bed,  and  a 
tiny  green  morocco  Imitation,  with  an  odd 
volume  of  Heine  and  one  little  tan-colored 
glove,  impatiently  pulled  off  wrong  side  out. 
I  waited  ten  —  fifteen  minutes,  half  an  hour; 
you  did  not  come.  I  paced  your  small  serene 
domain  and  devoured  everything  with  my  hun 
gry  gaze.  It  is  no  use  to  try  to  tell  you  .how 
it  was  with  me,  the  memories,  the  fear 
hopes  that  would  not  die,  —  and  still  you 
not  come.  Then  I  started  out  to  find  you, 
no  means  calm  and  reasonable,  but  immeasur 
ably  civilized  by  the  eloquent  loveliness  of 
your  white  nest. 

Even  in  my  agitation  I  remembered  your 
jesting  words  about  the  daring  lover  and  the 
two  entrances :  I  too  came  by  one  entrance 
and  went  by  the  other.  I  thought  you  were 


236  A   FELLOWE   AND   HIS   WIFE 

at  Herwegh's,  among  the  tall  white  forms 
which  Vanni  hated  and  I  with  him.  I  loved 
that  splendid  boy  in  your  letter.  It  seemed 
to  me  he  was  the  one  healthy  unspoiled  soul 
you  had  met  in  Rome.  I  asked  a  chance 
somebody  on  the  street  where  Herwegh's 
study  was.  The  man  knew,  and  even  went 
amiably  out  of  his  way  to  guide  me,  telling 
tales  to  my  unheeding  ears  of  a  wonderful 
newly  discovered  tenor.  I  came  to  the  place. 
Again  I  was  frustrated  and  cooled.  Every 
thing  was  different  from  what  I  had  antici 
pated.  He  was  not  there,  you  were  not  there. 
There  was  only  a  low  light  among  the  silent 
shapes  ;  and  a  dark,  beautiful  boy  with  wide- 
open  eyes  came  forward  to  meet  me. 

"  Where  is  the  sculptor  Herwegh  ? "  I  de 
manded. 

He  stared  at  me  long. 

"  Don't  you  like  him  ?  "  he  said  at  length. 

"  No,"  I  muttered.     It  was  a  strange  boy, 
but  what  else  could  I  say  ? 

"  Then  I  will  show   you,"  he   said    gravely. 
"  I  hate  him  too." 


A   PEL  LOWE   AND  HIS  WIFE  237 

"  You  are  Vanni  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  am  Vanni,  and  I  hate  him." 

"Where  is  the  lady  ?  "  I  stammered. 

"  There  are  several  ladies,"  said  the  boy 
thoughtfully.  "  Do  you  mean  the  beautiful 
white  lady  that  smiles  ? " 

"  Yes,  yes,  that  is  the  one  I  mean." 

"Well,  I  don't  know,"  he  deliberated,  "there 
are  so  many :  the  white  lady,  and  the  little 
red-haired  one,  and  the  other  with  the  wide 
mouth,  and  the  one  that  sings,  and  the  fierce, 
sad  lady  that  wants  him  all  the  time ;  but  it  is 
under  the  ilexes  that  he  and  the  white  lady 
often  walk.  Wait,  I  will  show  you.  Come." 
Locking  some  doors,  he  slipped  his  hand  con 
fidingly  in  mine,  and  we  walked  on. 

He  liked  me  instinctively,  you  see,  and  I 
him,  I  suppose  because  we  were  both  savages 
at  heart;  at  last  he  whispered,  "There  they 
are  !  "  and  left  me. 

A  man,  with  a  woman  leaning  on  his  arm, 
was  passing  slowly  up  and  down.  I  stood 
motionless  against  a  tree,  watched,  listened. 
She  was  tall  and  closely  veiled ;  I  could  not  see 


238  A   FELLOWE  AND  HIS  WIFE 

her  outlines,  for  she  wore  some  sort  of  long 
loose  black  garment.  Nothing  told  me  that  it 
was  you. 

The  man's  voice  was  ironically  good- 
humored.  He  was  explaining,  soothing,  prom 
ising  —  lying,  I  would  have  sworn,  although 
hearing  at  first  no  word. 

They  came  nearer.  The  woman  gave  one 
passionate  sob. 

"  Non  £  vero,  non  £  vero !"  she  exclaimed, 
and  her  first  tone  released  me  from  torture. 
Thank  God !  it  was  not  your  voice.  It  was 
not  my  Use,  humbled,  dragged  down  from  her 
high  estate,  the  plaything  of  a  careless  man. 

I  listened  deliberately,  greedily  bent  upon 
knowing  what  things  meant,  where  you  were, 
and  what  relation  it  all  had  with  you.  Once 
when  a  boy  I  was  an  eavesdropper,  at  first 
involuntarily  ;  then,  curious  because  my  father 
was  speaking  of  me,  I  listened  intentionally 
some  minutes,  and  hated  and  despised  myself 
for  it  afterwards,  and  was  bitterly  ashamed 
of  my  meanness.  But  this  was  different.  I 
had  no  scruples,  and  I  am  not  now  ashamed. 


A   FELLOWE  AND  HIS  WIFE  239 

I  heard  your  name  repeatedly,  at  first  with 
nameless  fear,  but  gradually  I  grew  quieted, 
for  not  once  did  they  speak  lightly  of  you, 
although  you  were  the  central  point  of  this 
dusky  rendezvous.  She  knew  that  he  was 
lying,  yet  she  let  herself  be  persuaded.  She 
was  so  weary,  so  infatuated,  that  she  felt  grate 
ful  for  their  hollow,  fragile  reconciliation. 
Poor  woman  !  I  did  not  like  the  Mallerini  in 
your  letters.  I  regarded  her  as  a  stagey,  ob 
noxious  sort  of  person,  and  she  is  in  truth 
rather  torrid  and  melodramatic.  But  never 
theless  she  turns  to  him  with  most  miserable 
doglike  faithfulness,  and  that  I  understand. 
Although  she  knows  him  down  to  the  core, 
although  he  has  outraged  her  faith  and  trailed 
her  ideals  in  the  dust,  she  loves  him ;  and  for 
her  misfortune,  for  her  pure  affection  amid 
impure  chances,  for  the  strong  human-heart- 
note  in  her  misery  I  pitied  her  so  vastly,  Use, 
I  would  have  done  anything  to  serve  her. 
For  a  moment  I  even  forgot  you  and  me,  it 
was  so  sad  a  thing  to  hear  her. 

She  implored    him    to    go    away  at    once. 


240  A   FELLOWE   AND   HIS  WIFE 

"Cesare,"  she  said,  "was  terrible."  Some 
times  she  was  afraid  he  would  kill  her,  and  she 
did  not  want  to  die.  Or  there  would  be  a 
horrible  scandal ;  Cesare  would  divorce  her  if 
he  could  obtain  one  positive  proof.  Since  the 
duel  he  had  set  detectives  after  her.  Divorce 
would  be  a  blessed  release,  only  she  knew 
Herwegh  would  abandon  her  if  she  trusted 
him,  as  he  did  before  in  Venice,  and  she 
sobbed  and  moaned  and  told  him  how  miser 
able  she  was,  until  he  grew  vastly  bored. 

"Haven't  we  had  theatre  enough?"  he 
asked.  "Besides,  you  know  this  has  not  the 
charm  of  novelty  for  either  of  us." 

Thereupon  she  retorted  angrily  and  assured 
him  that  whatever  came  he  had  lost  you  ;  you 
would  never  see  him  again.  You  had  sworn 
it.  She  reported  the  conversation  between 
you  practically  as  it  stands  in  your  letter. 
You  cared  nothing  for  him,  she  declared. 
You  did  not  know  how  to  love,  you  were  too 
cold.  You  were  only  a  sentimental  German, 
in  love  with  carving  and  yourself. 

"  There 's   method   in    your    madness,   my 


A   FELLOWE  AND  HIS  WIFE  241 

poor    Lucrezia,"    Herwegh    returned   with    a 
slight  laugh. 

Then  she  relented,  begged  him  to  forgive 
her,  but  to  go  away,  to  go  that  very  night. 
Things  were  too  strained,  she  could  not  bear 
it  any  longer.  Only  gain  time,  avert  Cesare's 
suspicions,  and  later  all  would  be  well  again. 

"But,  my  dear  child,  you  know  very  well 
that  I  am  going  to  Paris  soon  in  any  event. 
Why  this  ungraceful  haste  ?  " 

"  To-night,  ah  !  to-night,"  she  pleaded;  "Ce- 
sare  is  in  a  horrible  mood." 

"You  are  far  more  afraid  of  the  Countess 
von  Jaromar  than  of  Cesare,  yet  you  say  she 
will  never  look  at  me  again." 

"  To-night,  Friedrich,  for  my  sake  to-night," 
was  her  one  reply. 

"Well,"  he  deliberated,  "upon  the  whole,  I 
will  think  of  it.  It  might  save  a  little  awk 
wardness,  and  one  day  is  as  good  as  another  to 
them  that  love  the  Lord." 

"  Oh,  thanks,"  she  sobbed ;  "  do  you  pro 
mise  ? " 

"  Promise  !   Promise  !  "  he   repeated  incred- 


242  A    FELLOWE   AND   HIS  WIFE 

ulously.  "  O  indestructible  trustfulness  of 
womankind  !  She  still  has  faith  in  my  pro 
mise.  Lucrezia,  for  this  sublime  weakness 
you  shall  be  rewarded."  Looking  at  his  watch 
—  "  If  Vanni  is  still  at  the  studio,  and  he  is 
unless  he  has  run  away,  which  sometimes 
happens  when  I  tell  him  to  sleep  there,  and  if 
I  can  send  him  in  various  directions  and  get 
ready  in  time,  —  for  really  I  cannot  sail  off  on 
a  cloud  like  Jove  without  any  shirts,  —  I  will 
leave  for  Paris  to-night." 

The  poor  thing  thanked  him  with  passionate 
gratitude  as  if  he  had  undertaken  some  heroic 
deed  for  her,  clung  to  him  wildly,  and  they 
parted. 

She  stood  alone,  tottered,  leaned  against 
the  wall.  I  was  on  the  point  of  following 
Herwegh,  but  I  could  not  leave  her  like  that, 
I  went  to  her. 

"  Signora,"  I  said,  "  I  am  Odo,  Count  Jaro- 
mar.  You  seem  ill  ;  command  me." 

She  started  and  stared  at  me  under  the  gas 
lamp. 

"  Yes,  I  am  ill,"  she  muttered,  "  very  ill." 


A   FELLOWE   AND  HIS  WIFE  243 

"  Can't  I  get  a  carriage  for  you  ? "  I  sug 
gested. 

She  leaned  her  head  against  the  wall  and 
closed  her  eyes. 

I  waited  —  silent,  hearing  the  monotonous 
plash  of  the  fountain,  remembering  you  had 
listened  to  it  there  with  him,  and  realizing  you 
too  had  done  this  woman  a  wrong  and  added 
to  her  pain. 

Presently  she  said  : 

"  Were  you  here  all  the  time  ? " 

"Yes." 

"And  heard?" 

"Everything." 

"  I  thought  it,"  she  murmured.  "  I  thought 
I  saw  a  man's  figure.  But  I  am  so  nervous, 
I  am  afraid  of  shadows.  I  always  see  spies 
and  listeners  where  there  are  none.  I  am 
not  sorry  that  you  heard  ;  now  she  will  believe 
doubly/' 

"  If  I  cannot  get  a  carriage  for  you,  or  be 
of  any  service,  I  will  leave  you  now,"  I  re 
turned  formally. 

"  You  can  do  me  a  service,  a  great  service  ; 
will  you  ?  " 


244  A   FELLOWE  AND  HIS  WIFE 

"If  in  my  power." 

"  Take  me  home,  into  my  husband's  house," 
she  proposed  impetuously. 

"  I  shall  be  glad  to  do  that." 

"  Give  me  your  arm  ;  let  us  go,"  she  said 
with  strange  animation. 

I  hesitated. 

"  It  is  not  too  far  ?  I  must  see  Signer 
Herwegh  to-night." 

"You  will  not  hurt  him  !  "  she  cried. 

"  Why  should  I  ? "  I  said  coldly.  "  I  have 
no  cause." 

"  True,"  she  sighed.  After  a  moment,  "  Yes, 
you  will  have  time.  It  is  not  yet  nine  ;  he  goes 
after  eleven." 

We  went  on  in  silence.  I  stopped  a  car 
riage,  and  we  drove  to  her  house.  I  wondered 
every  instant  where  you  were,  if  she  knew, 
but  I  could  not  speak  your  name. 

A  carriage  followed  us  closely.  She  glanced 
back  nervously  now  and  then. 

At  her  door  I  turned  to  go. 

"  One  instant,"  she  murmured,  —  "  for 
Heaven's  sake  !  "  then  in  a  clear,  penetrating 


A    FELLOWE   AND  HIS  WIFE  24$ 

voice,  as  somebody  got  out  of  the  second  car 
riage  : 

"  I  must  really  insist  upon  your  coming  in  a 
moment,  my  dear  count.  My  husband  would 
be  inconsolable." 

I  followed  her.  "  Why  not  let  her  have 
her  way  ?  "  I  thought.  "  Everybody  is  against 
her.  If  anything  I  can  do  can  help,  she  is 
welcome  to  it."  I  saw  the  moody  Cesare. 
He  was  pointedly  courteous.  His  smiling 
wife  chattered  unceasingly  about  you,  your 
beauty,  your  talent,  your  sympathetic  qualities, 
how  she  had  enjoyed  her  long  talk  with  you, 
how  charmed  she  was  to  find  me  there,  how 
good  I  was  to  bring  her  home.  We  two  men 
listened  gravely,  and  believed,  I  presume,  one 
about  as  much  as  the  other.  Still  my  pres 
ence  was  a  tangible  reality,  which  Count  Mal- 
lerini  could  not  deny. 

I  may  have  remained  five  or  six  minutes, 
not  longer.  Then  I  drove  to  Herwegh's 
studio.  Don't  ask  me  what  my  intentions 
were,  for  I  don't  know.  I  had  to  see  him, 
and  I  was  seeking  you.  I  don't  know  why  I 


246  A    FELLOWE   AND   HIS  WIFE 

did  anything  that  night,  but  nothing  seemed 
to  me  at  the  time  strange  or  unnatural. 

Vanni  opened  the  door  and  smiled  as  if  he 
loved  me.  Herwegh  was  sitting  at  a  writing- 
table  strewn  with  papers.  A  bright  light 
shone  upon  him,  the  rest  of  the  long  room 
was  dim,  the  corners  black.  I  saw  the  white 
shapes,  and  thought,  "  She  loved  it  here,  I  will 
try  not  to  hate  it." 

"  Well,"  said  Herwegh,  turning  impatiently, 
"  what  is  it  now,  Vanni  ?  I  told  you  to  have 
those  things  sent  to  my  hotel." 

Perceiving  me,  he  gave  me  a  quick,  keen 
look,  and  came  forward  courteously  with  : 

"  Whom  have  I  the  honor  ?  " 

I  gave  my  name. 

"  I  presumed  as  much,"  he  returned  affably. 
"  I  recognized  you  from  the  little  bust  on  the 
countess'  desk.  I  am  very  glad  to  meet  you. 
May  I  offer  you  an  arm-chair,  and  a  cigar  ? 
Vanni,  bring  a  bottle  of  Frascati." 

I  said  nothing,  I  only  looked  fixedly  at  him. 
In  my  heart  were  a  score  of  emotions  in  hot 
conflict,  but  ruling  them  all,  a  distinct  impres- 


A    FELLOWE   AND    HIS   WIFE  247 

sion  that  I  must  be  cool  or  I  should  harm  you. 
I  presume  I  looked  as  I  felt,  hostile,  for  pres 
ently  he  said  with  a  smile  : 

"  Have  you  come  all  the  way  from  the  Baltic 
to  shoot  me  ?  Because  —  Vanni,  a  candle  on 
that  upper  shelf."  Taking  a  small  revolver 
from  the  table,  he  aimed  with  a  negligent  air 
and  shot  off  the  pointed  tip  of  a  plaster  faun's 
right  ear.  This  was  stupid  bravado  ;  but  I 
confess  it  angered  me. 

"I  have  not,"  I  returned  icily  ;  "but  —  allow 
me,"  and  taking  the  revolver  from  his  hand, 
I  shot  off  the  corresponding  left  ear-tip. 

"A  la  bonne  heure  !"  he  exclaimed,  smiling. 
"  What  can  I  do  for  you  ?  " 

"  For  me,  nothing." 

"  For  my  fair  pupil,  the  Countess  Use, 
then  ?  " 

"  For  her,  still  less." 

He  frowned. 

"  Then  since  you  come  neither  in  war  nor 
in  peace,  may  I  inquire  what  in  the  devil  do 
you  want  ? " 

"  Merely  to  accentuate   the   request   of  the 


248  A   FELLOWE  AND   HIS  WIFE 

Countess  Mallerini  that  you  leave  Rome  to 
night/'  I  replied,  on  the  impulse  of  the  mo 
ment. 

He  regarded  me  with  extreme  surprise. 

"  Upon  my  word,"  he  began,  "  you  know 
the  Mallerinis  already  ?  " 

"  I  come  from  their  house." 

"  But  you  must  have  only  just  arrived  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

He  surveyed  me  some  moments  with  an 
amused,  puzzled  expression. 

"  You  have  evidently  come  to  remain,"  he 
remarked  reflectively.  To  this  I  made  no 
reply. 

"  It  is  amazing.  Why  you  should  appear  as 
special  pleader  for  —  for  the  other  woman  is 
what  causes  my  confusion  of  ideas,"  he  went 
on  with  unfeigned  amusement.  "  Sapperment ! 
it  is  as  good  as  a  vaudeville.  But  I  will  go. 
My  friends  in  Rome  don't  want  me,  my  friends 
in  Paris  do.  Perhaps  you  will  come  to  the 
train  and  see  me  off  ? "  he  asked  ironically. 

"  I  will,  I  should  like  nothing  better." 

At  this  he  laughed. 


A    FELLOWE   AND  HIS  WIFE  249 

"  Do  you  know,  as  an  accent  you  are  a  suc 
cess,"  he  said,  "you  are  impressive." 

"  What  is  the  price  of  that  bust  ? "  I  de 
manded.  It  was  you,  Use  —  the  plaster  Rho- 
dope. 

"  You  speak  as  if  it  were  a  pair  of  shoes,  my 
young  Goth,"  he  answered  amiably.  "That 
bust  is  not  for  sale,  but  if  you  will  accept  it  at 
my  hands  "  — 

I  stood  looking  at  it  fiercely,  helplessly,  long 
ing  to  destroy  it,  not  trusting  myself  to  speak. 

Herwegh  watched  me  for  several  moments. 
Suddenly  he  flung  the  lovely  likeness  on  the 
floor.  It  lay  at  our  feet  in  fragments. 

"  Will  you  accept  it  now  ? "  he  said  quietly. 

"I  thank  you,"  I  answered. 

"See,"  he  returned,  "it  is  always  better  not 
to  take  things  tragically.  For  the  rest,  the 
Countess  Jaromar  is  a  lovely,  a  singularly  in 
nocent  and  enthusiastic  woman,  a  true  artist- 
nature  whom  I "  — 

"You  will  lose  your  train,"  I  interrupted. 

"No,  I  still  have  time.  I  must  be  fifteen 
years  older  than  you;  take  my  advice  and"  — 


250  A    FELLOWE   AND   HIS   WIFE 


"I  don't  want  it,  I  have  no  need  of  it,"  I 
broke  out  hotly. 

"Perhaps  you  are  right,"  he  returned  im- 
perturbably.  "  Every  man  must  stultify  him 
self  in  his  own  fashion,  —  you  in  yours,  I  in 
mine.  It  is  an  unlucky  chance  that  we  meet 
thus,"  he  went  on  ;  "I  should  have  greatly 
liked  to  know  you  better.  You  suggest  half 
a  dozen  things  I  want  to  do,  do  you  know.  I 
shall  not  forget  you,  and  I  have  to  thank  you 
for  a  particularly  fresh  experience  this  even 
ing." 

I  asked  where  and  when  his  train  would 
leave,  and  turned  to  go. 

"  One  word,"  he  said  hastily;  "a  droll  idea 
just  occurs  to  me.  You  do  not  suspect  me, 
I  hope,  of  anything  resembling  fear  of  conse 
quences  ?  " 

"  No  man  could  think  that  of  you,"  I  an 
swered  with  conviction. 

"That  is  right,"  he  said  cheerfully.  "Give 
the  devil  his  due.  I  am  not  over-sensitive  as 
to  the  bauble,  reputation,  but  I  confess  I  don't 
understand  jests  in  regard  to  my  personal  cou- 


A    FELLOWE    AND   HIS  WIFE 


rage.  An  revoir,  then,  since  you  will  not 
stay,  and  since  I  have  a  couple  of  letters  still 
to  write." 

I  was  sorry  to  say  good-by  to  Vanni.  He 
looked  at  me  wistfully.  He  was  disappointed 
that  nothing  had  happened.  It  seemed  to 
him  a  very  small  performance  for  so  tall  and 
strong  a  man  who  hated  Herwegh.  I  pre 
sume  it  was.  Yet  I  cannot  see  that  anybody's 
gore,  Herwegh's  or  mine,  would  have  helped 
matters. 

I  hastened  back  to  the  Palazzo  Malaspina. 
There  was  now  no  light  in  your  windows.  I 
could  not  explain  this,  but  waited,  watched, 
until  it  was  time  to  go  to  the  train. 

I  saw  Herwegh  leave.  He  waved  his  hand 
and  nodded  in  debonair  fashion  from  the  win 
dow,  and  went  off  apparently  with  a  tranquil 
conscience.  It  was  very  commonplace,  yet  all 
the  elements  of  tragedy  were  there,  as  they 
always  are  everywhere. 

This  is  the  history  of  my  evening  in  Rome 
when  I  came  to  see  only  you,  and  fate  led  me 
to  all  these  others  and  not  to  you.  You  know 


252  A   PEL  LOWE  AND   HIS  WIFE 

the  rest,  how  I  went  again  to  seek  you,  and  — 
turned  and  fled.  Your  long  letter  has  reached 
me  to-day.  And  now  trust  me.  Come.  Tele 
graph  where  I  shall  meet  you.  Think  only 
that  your  old  friend  longs  to  comfort  you. 
When  we  are  calmer,  after  a  long  time  —  we 
will  speak  of  all  these  things.  We  will  help 
each  other.  There  is  no  other  life  near  me  but 
your  own,  none  that  wants  me,  none  that  I 
want  —  only  you.  Come  to  me,  trust  me,  Use, 
beloved  wife. 


XXV 

FROM    MADEMOISELLE  MARGUERITE    BORIKE   TO   THE 
COUNTESS    ILSE   VON   JAROMAR. 

Schloss  Jaromar, 

February  2. 

MADAME : 

Although  Count  Odo  answered  quite  heart 
ily,  "  Of  course,  of  course,  child,"  when  I  asked 
him  this  morning  if  I  might  venture  to  send  one 
little  word  to  meet  you,  I  suspect  he  did  not 
see  me  or  hear  a  word  I  said,  he  was  so  glad, 
so  glad !  For  it  was  the  hour  that  he  received 
the  good  tidings,  and  his  eyes  were  flashing,  and 
his  face  looked  as  I  never  saw  it,  and  he  was 
giving  orders  to  everybody  at  once,  and  hold 
ing  the  telegram  tight  in  his  hand  wherever  he 
went,  and  so  eager  to  be  off,  I  could  not  disturb 
him  again.  For  there  was  indeed  little  time  to 
catch  the  train,  and  presently  he  mounted 
Baldur  and  rode  away  like  the  wind,  and  Ete 
galloping  behind  on  Puck,  with  the  valise,  could 


254  A   FELLOWE   AND  HIS  WIFE 

scarcely  keep  him  in  sight  —  even  down  the 
beech-avenue. 

Yet,  madame,  I  hope  it  is  not  unfitting  that 
the  strange  young  girl  whom  you  will  find  in 
your  house  should  long  to  lay  her  hommages 
and  her  whole  heart  at  your  feet.  For  she 
has  dared  to  love  you  from  afar,  she  thanks 
Count  Odo  and  you  every  hour  of  her  life  for 
the  loveliest  and  most  precious  gift  on  earth, 
—  a  home,  —  and  she  has  prayed  unceasingly 
to  the  blessed  Sainte  Marguerite  to  give  you 
courage  during  the  long  and  sorrowful  time  of 
your  absence,  and  to  restore  you  safe  to  your 
dear  ones. 

It  is  beautiful,  madame,  to  be  like  you  —  to 
come  like  the  sunshine  bringing  sweetness 
and  joy.  Sorrow  came  with  me,  yet  I  found 
such  pity,  such  angel-goodness  here,  that  I 
wonder  if  heaven  itself  can  be  kinder  than 
this  kind  world.  And  if  people  are  so  good 
to  me,  what  must  they  be  to  you  ?  Every 
morning  when  I  brought  fresh  flowers  to  your 
beautiful  picture,  I  have  remembered  this. 

Ah,  madame,  I  cannot  wait  for  your  home- 


A   FELLOWE   AND  If  IS  WIFE  2$$ 

coming,  for  the  banners,  and  bells,  and  flow 
ers,  for  the  smiles  and  happy  tears,  and  most 
of  all  for  the  great  joy  in  Count  Oclo's  face. 

It  is  good  to  see  him  glad,  when  one  has 
always  known  him  sorrowful  and  lonely  be 
hind  all  the  happiness  that  he  gives  others. 
It  is  beautiful  to  be  the  one  who  alone  can 
give  him  happiness,  to  be  great  and  good  and 
wise  like  you,  and  to  be  able  to  stand  beside 
Count  Oclo. 

Pardon  me,  madame,  that  I  do  not  know 
how  to  say  it  better,  my  deep,  deep  devotion, 
my  tender  thoughts,  my  gladness  —  but  since 
I,  in  the  whole  multitude  of  loving  waiting 
ones,  have  most  reason  to  love  and  bless  you 
both,  I  would,  if  I  could,  make  my  welcome 
ring  out  above  all  the  rest,  like  one  little  joy- 
bell  from  the  loving  heart  of 

M  ARGOT. 

THE    END. 


UNIVERSITY    OF    CALIFORNIA 
LIBRARY 

Due  two  weeks  after  date. 


30m-7,'12 


Howard 
Fellows  and 


Jun  22  1912 


72935 
his  wife 

Sem  33 


955 

H  848 


.A    LIBRARY 


